True Faith
by Rainsaber
Summary: A tragedy befalls D'Artagnan and all those around him, making Athos re-examine what D'Artagnan truly means to him after what happened on the battlefield months prior. Sequel to 'Lionheart.' D'Artagnan/Athos centric with healthy doses of our other boys for general audiences. Non-slash.
1. Neither here nor there (Part One)

**True Faith**

**Summary:** A tragedy befalls D'Artagnan and all those around him, making Athos re-examine what D'Artagnan truly means to him after what happened on the battlefield months prior. Sequel to 'Lionheart.' D'Artagnan/Athos centric with healthy doses of our other boys for general audiences. Non-slash.

**A/N: **This was originally an answer to the dictionary challenge posted a couple of years ago. While I had planned on sticking to those guidelines, and they did send me in interesting directions, I think for this repost I may have to abandon that. These chapters have simply been exploding in revisions so what I may do instead is split up one larger chapter into smaller chapters for easier reading. The very first word that got me onto the idea for this story was 'neither.' Somehow this plot bunny came out of nowhere and years later it's still nagging me to get it finished. So, fingers crossed this will be the nudge to get'er done! As before I've put the English translations alongside the Spanish dialogue in the beginning between (parentheses). I have absolutely no idea about correct traditional/provincial Spanish spoken back in the early 1600s, and I am also in no way fluent either-I just studied three years in high school…and used Google translate. So please forgive any errors and bear with me because I do strive for accuracy no matter what. There will be lots of new material this time around, and as stated in my profile do NOT feel obligated to leave a review. Just read and enjoy.

**Warnings: **Let's see…character angst, little bit of blood and violence mostly accompanied by our boys' trade-mark penchant for action and getting themselves into trouble on a daily basis, mentions of suicide by a minor character later on in the story, references to violence and blood from the prequel 'Lionheart.' For now that's about it, but if anything else comes up it will be with a clear warning at the top of the page.

**Disclaimer: **The Three Musketeers and its characters rightfully belong to Alexandre Dumas. I'm just a serial borrower.

* * *

**Chapter One - Neither here nor there (Pt. 1)**

Dust fell through the cracks like embers from a fire, lit from the bright room above. D'Artagnan shut his eyes on instinct and flinched away from the hole until it passed. He grabbed onto a support beam for balance when the sharp tug in his gut warned him he was about to fall. The barrel of wine under his boots creaked but righted itself with a soft snap-thud on the dirty floor. He listened, but heard no pause in the conversation from the table above him. Only then did he breathe a sigh of relief and resume his previous position, ears and eyes trained to the spaces between the floorboards of the tavern and the table situated above him.

"Usted es paranoico, amigo mío. Esto es Francia, ¿recuerdas? Todos se preocupan por el vino y las mujeres, no desconocidos." (You're paranoid, my friend. This is France, remember? All they care for is wine and women, not strangers.)

"Hablamos español, tonto. Eso es suficiente para guardias como ellos." (We speak Spanish, fool. That is enough for guards like them.)

"Relájese. Están borrachos. Que no se acordará de nuestras caras, ni nuestra lengua." (Relax. They're drunk. They won't remember our faces, let alone our tongues.)

D'Artagnan smirked in the near-darkness. There weren't many people up in the north of France who even knew a single word of Spanish, but having lived and grown up in Gascony, in the south, had its advantages. Though his father had taught him much, he learned more from sneaking into taverns just like this one on their trips further south to visit his father's relatives. D'Artagnan was not fluent, but he knew enough to make good assumptions and pick out important words-

"Mañana por la noche. Doce y cuarenta y cinco de la tarde. Al suroeste del puente." (Tomorrow night. Quarter to one. Southwest bridge.)

-Just like those.

"Estos mosquetes holandés mejor que hacer el grado. Echo de menos los de Prusia ya. No tomar semanas para hacer!" (These Dutch muskets had better measure up. I miss the ones from Prussia already. Those didn't take weeks to make!)

"Que trabajan. Y vienen más barato. ¿Qué más quieres?" (They work. And they come cheaper. What else do you want?)

"Vino de verdad! Y tal vez una chica bonita." (Real wine! And perhaps a pretty girl.)

"No olvide que usted salve al final del día, traidor!" (Just don't forget who you hail to at the end of the day, traitor!)

"Siempre amados míos España. Ahora y para siempre!" (Always my beloved Spain. Now and forever!)

Once the men went up to their rooms, scraping the chairs back, with a more sober care than anyone else at the hour, D'Artagnan hopped off the barrel and slipped out of the cellar. On his way to the stables he stuck to the shadows and surveyed his surroundings as discreetly as he could, making sure he wasn't followed or seen. He entered from the back and found his horse exactly where he had hidden her hours prior. She nickered softly and nudged her head at his when he went to stroke her in apology for the long wait.

"Mission accomplished, girl," he whispered with a grin. He pulled an apple out of his pocket and she seemed to forgive him in exchange for the treat.

Not long afterwards he was wrapped up in his cloak against the rain on his way home. Thunder rumbled in the distance, warning him that a downpour wasn't far away. As it was, he was drenched by the time it came anyway, so when he finally walked through the door of his shared apartments with his friends he wouldn't have been surprised if they had actually said he looked like a drowned cat. But his three friends restrained themselves well. Even Porthos hadn't spoken a word for his own anxiousness.

"Well," Athos prompted.

D'Artagnan swept the room with tired eyes, noting that the fire had yet to be tended to, there were dry and empty bottles of wine and glasses on the table, there was an absence of food, and lastly a trio of wary but hopeful faces. He smiled to himself first, relishing the fact that for once they were hanging on _his _every word, then physically let his trade-mark smirk loose.* "Tomorrow night," he said.

Porthos laughed, then bellowed for Planchet to bring them another bottle of wine. Aramis clapped his hands together with a sigh of relief and muttered a prayer of thanks. Athos sat back with a look of relief and nodded at D'Artagnan in appreciation.

D'Artagnan genuinely smiled at the silent praise, even though exhaustion hung from his frame like heavy armor. Planchet bustled in and out, quicker than D'Artagnan had ever seen him, and soon all four men were tucking into their late meal with fervor. It was not a feast, but they partook of more than what they usually did due to the occasion.

"They think they're clever," D'Artagnan said, after hungrily downing a mouthful of roasted potatoes. "Waiting so late into the night. But they'll soon regret it."

"Four weeks of tracking ghost shipments, different departure points, even different couriers and carts," Athos groused. "They don't think they're clever, they know they are, which will be to our advantage."

"Do you think our original plan will still work," Aramis asked, still holding his wine glass aloft.

"Of course it should," Porthos boasted. "We spent _days _planning for this little rendezvous. Surely we haven't forgotten anything? Any_one_?" Porthos counted the four of them at the table to emphasize his point and grinned when he finished with himself. "No, I don't think we have."

D'Artagnan chuckled to himself, nearly choking on some small-grown carrots while Athos rolled his eyes.

"The Cardinal," Aramis pointed out. "Won't take too kindly to being left out of the loop, I'm sure."

"We don't report to the Cardinal," Athos stated. "And neither does Monsieur de Treville."

Aramis leant forward for emphasis. "No, but the King looks to the Cardinal for advice against the Spanish. This business with land claims in Italy is wearing nerves thin and all it will take for another war is one false step from either side. They are looking for an issue, however small, just like we are."

"So why aren't we at war with them already," D'Artagnan quipped.

"Because we have no proof of their involvement-"

D'Artagnan smirked. "Until now-"

Aramis sighed. "Yes, but my point is-"

Porthos scoffed. "Last I checked this was still France and we are still Frenchmen. If anyone should be declaring war it should be us four! We're the ones who have been deprived of our comforts these past insufferable weeks. It's been so long since we've been to a tavern that I've forgotten what women look like!"

"Weren't you there last night," Athos drawled.

The grin on Porthos' face disappeared.

Aramis scowled at being interrupted but pressed on when Athos nodded for him to continue. "As I was saying, we need to be careful. Knowing where they'll meet, when they'll meet, and how many of them there may be will mean nothing if we cannot, without a shadow of a doubt, prove that the Spanish are interfering and personally funding the Protestants in the south."

Porthos leaned back in his chair and tipped his weight on the back two legs with an ominous creak. "What more proof do you need other than the devil himself?"

Athos frowned. "_If_ they talk. _If_ they admit to the truth. Aramis is right. That won't be likely even if we can manage to capture them without difficulty."

"Isn't that what we have gaolers for?** Extracting the truth from lying bastards like them?"

Aramis massaged the side of his head where he felt a headache blooming, courtesy of Porthos' whining. "The proof that we need, that the king _and _the Cardinal needs, is physical evidence of their patronage, not just transcribed confessions driven out by torture. This is a matter of national importance and one that shouldn't be taken lightly-by now Louis could have declared war on Philip and been done with it, but he has chosen to place his trust in Monsieur de Treville, and us, to find out the truth of the matter. Failure is not an option."

Athos dropped his fork onto his plate with a soft clang. "Hard to avoid that if there's nothing to find."

D'Artagnan slowly put his cup back down on the table, staring distantly but focused on the far wall and a brilliant and sudden memory. "What about their arms," he said aloud.

His friends turned to him with identical expectant expressions, but D'Artagnan didn't notice. In his mind he could clearly see the kingly sword he had admired all evening from the dark cellar. And seeing it now brought back a very important piece of information.

"If these men are as smart as we know them to be," D'Artagnan suggested. "Then they will bear no mark of their country nor their king, but their arms-their weapons would be an exception, especially if they were a gift. How else would you come by a sword crafted by a Spanish master smith? Or one with a Spanish inscription on the hilt? 'Felipe mi soberano eterno. me guía a través del secreto al cielo por encima.' 'Philip, my sovereign eternal, guide me through secrecy to heaven above.' One of them is a nobleman." He looked up to see surprise and disbelief replacing the looks from earlier. Self-consciously he wondered if he hadn't butchered the translation and looked to Aramis for reassurance. "Right?"

Aramis chuckled and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You know more than you let on, D'Artagnan. I didn't know you knew the language."

"My father had frequent dealings with Spainards," D'Artagnan shrugged. "Some of them make good wine."

Athos looked at the boy with narrowed eyes, but D'Artagnan ignored him for his wine instead.

"If one of them is in fact a nobleman that would be proof enough alone depending on who he is. This _could_ actually be enough," Aramis mused.

"It would be for the Cardinal," Athos agreed.

"Remind us why we keep you around, boy," Porthos asked, grinning again and waving his glass around with a mischievous glint in his eyes. He didn't, however, spill a single drop in his exaggerations.

D'Artagnan hid his blush from Aramis' praise and responded to Porthos with a straight face. "Besides doing your dirty work so your lace stays unruffled, saving your backside, and making you feel young again? I'm not so sure."

"Bah," Porthos exclaimed, banging the chair back into its proper place with all four legs on the floor. "The boy's learning too much from you, Aramis. He's insulting us backwards now!"

"Us," Aramis inquired with raised eyebrows. "Last I checked nothing in _my_ wardrobe included lace!"

Porthos went to reply but the sound of the chair breaking beneath him drowned out whatever retort he may have come up with, and of the three of them Aramis failed the worst at hiding his laughter.

* * *

Later that night when everyone had retired to bed D'Artagnan lay on top of the covers in his room waiting and listening. Porthos was usually the first one to fall asleep, but the real test came when Aramis would finally follow. The irregular hours he kept due to prayers, writing, and the like meant a different time nearly every night. But tonight he fell into slumber early, tired from an early guard shift and waiting up all night for news on their planned escapade tomorrow. And, like clockwork, as soon as his soft snoring joined in the normal noises of their apartments another door further down the hall opened and shut.

D'Artagnan held his breath and froze.

The shadow under his door only paused once on his way to the staircase. The floorboards creaked, but too slight for any light sleeper to hear, then continued on. Once it was gone D'Artagnan let out the breath he'd been holding and thumped his head back onto his pillow with a firm decision in mind. It was against his better judgment that he refused to spend another night in the dark. He leapt up out of bed and watched for confirmation from his window as Athos shrugged on his cloak in the street and started walking north.

Knowing that there was no time to waste, D'Artagnan grabbed his boots and snuck down the stairs as fast as he dared. Not too long later he was darting out into the street himself and tailing Athos at a discreet distance, struggling into his own cloak and hat. His boots echoed on the cobblestones, no matter how quietly he tread, but he had learned through past exploits to time them just right so his friend would only think they were the echoes of his own footsteps he might be hearing. Only once did D'Artagnan have to duck behind a corner for fear of being discovered.

When he resumed his journey moments later he grew more confident with each step that Athos hadn't noticed him. D'Artagnan's mind was awhirl with theories and reasons for his friend's odd behavior but nothing in his mind seemed to jump out as a plausible explanation. A woman was completely out of the question. There was plenty of alcohol stocked in the kitchen. And there was no work that needed to be done before tomorrow. Aramis had seen to all the preparations. D'Artagnan was no expert on Athos' moods, but he had thought he knew their ebbs and flows quite well until the last few months. Something had changed in Athos and D'Artagnan had a hunch as to what it might be, but he couldn't be sure.

Either way he was going to get to the bottom of it with the least amount of trouble possible-if he could help it. A few squares further into the city proved difficult for him to get proper cover, but he hadn't worried about it until after another turn when Athos suddenly disappeared. Shocked, D'Artagnan looked about in every dark direction, down every possible street and regrettably found them all deserted in the quiet of the night. He tried retracing his steps and checking locked doors, but he wound up empty-handed.

"Damn it," he muttered.

He would have turned back right then if it hadn't been for a soft shuffling he heard between two houses to his left. Cautiously he inched his way into the darkness, ignoring his instinct to grab his sword, and stopped to listen more closely. After a few tense seconds he decided that it must have been his imagination in its attempts to not admit defeat and return home. And he would have sensibly done just that if it hadn't been for one thing. Within the blink of an eye he found himself shoved up, face-first, against a brick wall with the hand closest to his sword restrained in a tight vice-like grip behind his back. And then there was the sharp object, likely a short dagger or knife, pressed to the back of his neck that gave him no room for escape.

"Move just an inch and you're a dead man," hissed a cold voice next to his ear. "What business have you as my shadow, rogue?"

With his hat still askew on his head he could get no visual confirmation of his attacker behind him, nor could he judge by the voice due to the adrenaline that was rushing through his ears-among other bodily parts he would love to be using at the moment. But something familiar in the voice stilled his rampant thoughts and eager limbs, something that pushed his sincerest hopes and fervent fears to the surface. D'Artagnan unclenched his teeth and took an uncertain breath before quietly venturing forward. "Athos…?"

The grip on his hand loosened just a little in surprise. "D'Artagnan?"

Next thing he knew his hat was knocked aside. D'Artagnan turned around to look and was released instantly. A string of colorful curses followed and when he finally had the chance to look at his infuriated friend he could see that his situation had not improved. Athos glared at D'Artagnan in such a manner that instantly made him feel like a nosy child caught in the act. Though the younger of the two would have loved to speak his mind he held his tongue and continued the staring match that they started. Neither man dared to be the first to break the heavy silence, and when it appeared as if they both might stand there all night Athos set his jaw and turned his back to him, not in any mood to talk reasonably. D'Artagnan frowned and stooped to pick up his hat, ignoring the tight pain in his wrist, and opened his mouth to speak. But Athos beat him to it.

"What the _damn hell_ are you doing following me, boy?"

D'Artagnan frowned but held his ground. "Call it a fool's intuition but something tells me you're not out here looking for our smuggling villains."

"Fool indeed," Athos growled, spinning around. "You listen to me-what I choose to do, whatever time of day or night is none of your concern. Go home."

D'Artagnan crossed his arms. "And if I choose not to?"

In D'Artagnan's knowledge of the man there were five levels of glares, each with varying degrees of meaning and intensity. The first was a spark of annoyance with begrudging acceptance. The second was a clearer disproval with more than a hint of distrust. If the intensity of the third wasn't obvious enough the firm eyebrows made it so. And the fourth only added to the hot fire with the addition of stern immovable lips.

The worst that D'Artagnan had yet to fully see was a strange combination of all the above, and a sixth sense of just knowing that the man was too angry for anything other than action, usually with a sword. He had only seen this once, when he took a bullet for Athos in a skirmish and was stupid enough to fail to take the blackguard who had done it down with him. His memory of that day was still rather hazy but what he did remember was the murderous look and posture Athos had adopted within the span of a split-second. The sight, though slightly vague still chilled him to this day. And he had never found out what happened to the man who had shot him.

He still bore an ugly scar in the middle of his chest from that fateful day. And more often than not he would find Athos staring at his shirt rather than at his face in passing conversation. D'Artagnan knew without a shadow of a doubt that Athos cared for him despite his gruff and dispassionate manner at times…well, that was nearly all the time minus the rare few moments when he let this cement wall of a guard down. But not speaking that affection or, more recently, showing it seemed almost the same as not feeling it or having it at all, which made things very confusing every now and then between them. And D'Artagnan was never one for questions that didn't have answers.

So, when Athos glared at him again, saying with his eyes, 'Leave me alone and go away, if you know what's good for you,' D'Artagnan gave him the only answer he thought something like that deserved, a fixed and determined stance that said 'Make me.'

"Then wander around in the dark for all I care," Athos hissed, leaning in close. "Just stay the hell away from me." The older musketeer whipped around and started off down a street that D'Artagnan knew to lead in the opposite direction of their apartments.

"Athos," D'Artagnan called out as he went after him. "Please, the only reason I followed you was to help."

Athos stopped short. "Help _what_?"

"Well," D'Artagnan sputtered, for lack of better and more intelligent words he had prepared for this exact moment. "…you! What do you think?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you. I know you're not sleeping…and I thought-"

Athos took a step towards him, but D'Artagnan didn't back down. "What does it matter to you what hours I keep?"

"It's not-"

"Help me," Athos mocked, leaning down over D'Artagnan and letting his burning temper loose. "What makes you think that an insolent and immature little boy like you, not even twenty years of age nor a full-fledged musketeer, can do anything other than be a careless nuisance in these kind of matters? For your information, as if it wasn't clear already, I don't need help and if I do you won't be the first one to hear of it. Save us both the trouble and go back to bed where you belong. And don't ever follow me around like some damn street cat again because I am not your keeper!"

Stunned would have been the appropriate feeling that kept D'Artagnan's feet stuck to the ground where he stood, helplessly watching as Athos stormed away in a fury.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Why hadn't he said the things he wanted to?

The things he should have said-where had they gone?

What were friends if they couldn't stand up to one another?

And why did he feel as if he never had a chance in the first place?

* * *

The next morning, Athos was up with the sun swiping and swinging through his morning practice routine with anger left over from the previous night. He could have killed the boy had the little idiot not revealed himself when he did. And that truth ate at him since that fateful moment in which he let his anger dictate his actions. It made him all the angrier that he hadn't paid more attention to more than a few things last night. But what other excuse did he have than to blame the one thing he'd been trying to ignore for the past year or more?

He stopped for a break with sweat dripping down his face and snatched the water that Planchet had left for him before sunrise. As he rested, his mind teetered between the nightmares he'd been having and the careless words he'd said in the early hours of the morning to a good friend. A dear friend. A friend who was too good for him. Reflecting on them now did nothing to relieve the guilt he felt, but the other part of him that felt justified was louder. People who wore their hearts on their sleeves had always irked Athos in some fashion. It was as if they were asking for trouble, paying no mind to their own needs for self-preservation and protection from the pain this horrible world could inflict. And though that was the very definition of D'Artagnan's character, there was also another part of Athos that couldn't stand the thought of being without it. The boy, in all respects, was the very thing he once was and had no chances of ever being again. But he had accepted that about himself a long time ago. It was the boy he was more worried about…Athos sighed and rubbed his bleary eyes that stung in exhaustion.

Worry!

That would surely be the death of him before long. And why? A certain young Gascon farm boy soon turned musketeer and…whatever the boy was to him, he was presently _late_. Without thinking Athos started towards the house and climbed the stairs to D'Artagnan's bedroom, bent on giving the boy a piece of his mind for his tardiness-for it had been he who had asked for Athos as a sparring partner, he who had suggested early in the mornings when they were both awake and limber, he who had always been on time and often early.

When Athos opened the door, however, he stopped in his tracks and the ire melted off him like it was a cold block of ice at the mercy of a hot summer's day. With languid arms half-hugging half-resting his messy head of dark hair on the top corner of his pillow, the boy lay sprawled into a curled ball on his bed. Fast asleep. Athos nearly groaned in defeat, leaning against the doorjamb as he took in the tranquil scene before him. He was slightly tempted to knock the boy over onto the floor for his troubles, but ultimately decided against it. He just looked too…vulnerable when he was asleep.

Yes, Athos thought to himself. That was it. It was too easy of a thing to do.

Small shivers disturbed D'Artagnan's sleep. That little show of weakness instantly made Athos feel ten times worse over what he said to him the night before, when he had left him in the cold night to walk back alone and bear those hurtful words that he never meant. And though he could do nothing to rectify the matter now, he could at least start the day off better than his temper had originally planned for them both. So he crossed the distance to the bed, silent as a mouse, and pulled the kicked-off covers back up and over D'Artagnan's small frame. He stopped halfway at seeing the livid bruise on the boy's wrist and, as if sensing the scrutiny, D'Artagnan stirred under the new source of warmth, stretching out and burrowing into it. Athos stilled, suddenly afraid that the boy would wake, but a second later when D'Artagnan sighed and settled back down Athos straightened in relief and decided to make for a quick exit while he still could-

"Good morning, Athos," Aramis whispered with a smug smile on his face.

Surprise made his face color in a sudden and fierce embarrassment, but he continued on out the door as he planned, stopping for only a moment to whisper in Aramis' ear while he closed the door quietly behind him. "Speak a word of this and you'll regret it, I promise you."

"If I were no good at keeping secrets," Aramis calmly replied. "Then I suppose I ought to be considering a different occupation besides the church. Come, Planchet has breakfast ready."

As the morning wore on they all took advantage of their free time before their meeting with Monsieur de Treville at noon to rest. D'Artagnan slept the longest of all of them and was still tired by the time they were readying themselves to leave. In the stables Athos found him struggling with a strap from the saddle for his horse. Wordlessly he reached over and straightened it the right way with a gentle air that made the fight in the boy's eyes fade. Afterwards he turned and nodded to the boy before tending to his own horse. D'Artagnan muttered a 'thank you,' to which Athos paid no attention. Though it wasn't anything close to the proper apology his young friend deserved of him in his mind it was a start. On the ride to Treville's offices, he fell back and let Aramis and Porthos take the lead. Aramis glanced surreptitiously behind to see the reason why, but when Athos caught his eye he understood and set about the task of keeping Porthos occupied.

Athos looked over to D'Artagnan who had been ignoring him for the past few blocks, and was at a loss for how to exactly broach the tricky subject without drawing too much attention or allowing for either of their tempers to flare up again. This time, D'Artagnan beat him to the punch of conversation. "You're right. What you decide to do on your own time is your business and I apologize for intruding upon it," the boy said. "If it matters, I didn't do it out of anything else other than concern for you. Aramis and Porthos know your moods much better than I do, but when a friend of mine is struggling with something I can't in good conscience stand aside and watch. I'm not one to give up on a friend easily, if ever, and especially when they push me away. It's why I tend to overstep my bounds so often. I do try not to, but you make it difficult sometimes, Athos."

D'Artagnan finally turned his face and Athos was taken aback at the open honesty. It was clean of any bitterness or deserved anger from the previous night, which made him wonder at how such a thing was possible. Athos debated with himself about the things that needed to be said and what he wanted to say, and in the end he could do nothing but sigh and answer with the finality he and the boy were both used to, but with a gentler delivery than usual. "Try harder next time."

D'Artagnan nodded once and the two didn't say another word to each other until they reached the hotel.

* * *

**A/N: Different chapter breaks for the reposts because of all the new material to follow. Reposting will only take time in quick editting, but I'm currently in the middle of writing the last leg of the story so lots more to come.**


	2. Neither here nor there (Part Two)

**Chapter Two - Neither here nor there (Pt. 2)**

Monsieur de Treville regarded his four best men in front of him with a stern look of expectancy. None of them fidgeted or broke into a sweat. All stood at attention and awaited their orders to proceed with their pre-approved plan. At length, the captain of the musketeers sighed and went around to the other side of his desk and retrieved the sealed official papers, which he handed to Athos. Taking that as a dismissal the musketeers began to file out of the room, and not without a victorious skip in their step and barely concealed smiles.

"Athos," Monsieur de Treville said, catching him on his way out the door. "You had better be right about this. Louis' patience is running thinner than the Cardinal's. I trust you'll understand that all our necks lie in wait?"

Athos didn't hesitate in his response. "You will have your evidence, Monsieur. I promise you."

"There will be no more chances after this."

"Understood."

"If you earn it," the captain said with a sigh. "You will all be placed on extended leave. However long you want."

Athos wanted to scoff, but remained impassive when he gave his answer. "Knowing Porthos, that won't be long enough for any of our likings."

The captain cracked the barest hints of a smile for the first time since they all had entered the hotel. Athos bowed and exited the building. Then the four friends made their way over to the training grounds and barracks to put the final stages of their plan into place. By nightfall musketeers and guards alike were each respectively partnered up for experience and the task at hand. Under Treville's and Essart's combined supervision they mapped out routes, checkpoints, the point of interception, and the position of reserves should the need call for them.

With the safe house commandeered for prisoner detainment afterwards, nothing was left to be done but for one insightful suggestion by D'Artagnan. Supervised by Aramis, he gave his friends and some other musketeers and guardsmen a quick rundown of key words in Spanish that could signal a possible escape attempt or attack. After that every man broke for the evening meal and returned after darkness fell, ready and hungry for action. One last minute particular was a weapons check, and once everything was found to be in working order the four inseparables left to take their positions at the very bridge where their contacts had said their enemies would attempt to exit the city and bring their shipments to the Calvinists in the south.

When they deemed the area secure Porthos held out his fist, to which Aramis laid a hand overtop it. D'Artagnan and Athos moved at the same time and bumped hands. Athos looked over at him but D'Artagnan looked down and pulled back a bit out of surprise and respect, not wanting to offend the man any further. But when Athos grabbed his hand and secured it between his and Aramis' he shook off his insecurities and gave his friends a reassuring smile, secretly pleased on the inside that things hadn't deteriorated too badly since last night.

A knowing and understanding look passed through all four men before they parted to take their places. D'Artagnan and Porthos were to be at the mouth of the bridge on either side, obscured by the edifices that looked out over the Seine River. Porthos crossed the road, calm and nonchalant, choosing a dark doorway underneath a low-lying eave to obscure himself. Aramis went next, walking to the corner of the bridge and stopping to wait for Athos with his back turned. It would be him and Athos who would hide under the side ledges of the bridge until their targets were in such a position to where all four of them could surround the party without trouble. It was certainly the most strenuous of the positions they had to take, but neither man complained about it.

And ironically of them all, Athos abhorred the idea of swimming, but the main gave no complaints. D'Artagnan had volunteered himself for part of the job but Athos stoutly refused the boy's offer. He had wanted to argue with Athos but couldn't figure out a way how to voice his opinions without insulting the man. Instead he bit his tongue and accepted the least dangerous position with thinly veiled reluctance. It was three against one after all, and he had made a promise to Athos, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

D'Artagnan looked up at an empty balcony above him which regrettably was to be his spot for the night and noted that the brickwork would make it difficult to climb, but not impossible. He turned back to Athos, daring to think that his friend would give him a leg up, but found the man pulling out his pistol. Athos loaded it and then pressed the gun into D'Artagnan's hand. "The trigger sticks so be careful," Athos said.

D'Artagnan frowned as he held the familiar weight of the weapon. "Won't you need this?"

"You'll be at a better vantage point than any of us. And I would rather not lose it in the Seine should it slip loose from my pocket." Athos looked at him with something that could neither be described as normally aloof nor openly affectionate. It was something in the middle. Fierce and mesmerizing.

Though he wasn't a demonstrative man, D'Artagnan had learned to pick up on quite a few things about the older musketeer. And something told him that it wasn't just a matter of trust that made Athos give him the gun. Hope blossomed in his chest, because though it wasn't much, it was the closest to a full apology as he was going to get from Athos. Just knowing that he was forgiven was all he could have asked for. So, this time, when he smiled, it was with a lighter heart.

"Make sure I don't have to use it," D'Artagnan replied, pointing a finger at the man for emphasis.

Athos raised an eyebrow as he stowed his gloves away. "And if you do, make sure you don't waste the bullet."

"Athos," D'Artagnan asked quietly.

"Yes, boy," Athos sighed.

The boy turned to the older man in the dark and stood to his full height, which wasn't all that tall compared to his companion, but the weight of his words made him feel as such. "This isn't my pistol. And I don't want to become familiar with it. I fully expect to return it to you when we're done."

Athos looked at him with hard eyes. "And I fully expect you to as well. I trust I don't need to remind you of your promise."

"_Our_ promise," D'Artagnan corrected him.

Athos rolled his eyes, but nodded his head in agreement. Without further comment, the older man held out his cupped hands and D'Artagnan took the cue to get a leg up to the bottom ledge of the balcony. He barely caught it due to his short height and had to heave himself up largely with his arms. He swung his leg up and hooked a foot through the iron-rails and climbed awkwardly the rest of the way over the flat railing to safety. He grunted from the effort, annoyed at his less than graceful landing on his backside and when he peered over the edge he swore he saw Athos smirking.

"We have faith in you," Athos whispered up to him. Before he went his countenance hardened again and he pointed a finger up at him in such a way that brokered no room for argument. "No heroics."

"Nor for you," the boy returned. "Or the promise is off."

Athos cast one final heated glare at him before he shook his head and crossed the street to an impatient Aramis. D'Artagnan watched with an anxious spirit as they made their way to the middle of the bridge, parted to either side, and hopped over the stone balustrade, disappearing from street view. He could barely make Aramis out in the distance, but let himself relax against the stone wall of the empty building behind him, into the shadows. A small handheld mirror from his pocket helped him see around the corner of the building without giving himself away.

And then there was nothing to do but wait.

And wait.

And wait some more…

Until sounds of horses and a wooden cart startled them all out of their dozing. As it turned out their Spanish company arrived earlier than planned, but not by much. D'Artagnan signaled to Porthos first and then used the mirror to signal Aramis next, catching the light from the full moon. Then he pressed himself as close to the window next to him as he dared. A large covered cart slowly rolled by, pulled by two tired horses and directed by a man hunched over and hidden by a large hood. Next to him sat a man with a musket under his boots. In the cart behind them, on top of covered supplies sat two more armed men, and following the cart behind were another two on horseback. Once they started over the bridge D'Artagnan swept his gaze over to Porthos, who moved in once they crossed the threshold.

He signaled to Aramis again and watched as his two friends sprung in front of the company, halting their journey out of Paris. D'Artagnan held his breath and kept a firm finger on the trigger of the pistol. He could distantly hear words being exchanged, and Porthos being insulted, which was his first clue that things would not proceed well at all. Then he saw one of the horseback men raise his musket. And Porthos was looking in the other direction. D'Artagnan didn't hesitate. He aimed and fired. Then, when his target went down with a cry of pain and imminent death, all hell broke loose. He secured the gun at his side again and flung himself over the railing, hearing shouts, clashes of swords, and a few gunshots mixed in the fray. He landed hard and in a heap on the sidewalk but he pushed himself up and raced to Porthos' side, who was currently engaged in a duel with the other man who had been on horseback. One of the musket men who had been sitting in the back of the cart leapt out and rushed at D'Artagnan, intending on taking him by surprise, but the young man was ready and dispatched him in an instant.

"Nicely done, lad," Porthos called, as he lunged and pressed his enemy forward towards the edge of the bridge.

"What, you're not finished with yours yet," D'Artagnan called back, teasing as he held back another man who tried to rush him. "You're getting slow!"

Porthos chuckled as his enemy grew more frantic, pressed against the side of the bridge. "I'm merely repaying this villain for his foul mouth!"

D'Artagnan let his enemy push him backwards, then used the man's momentum against him, spun around, and cut the back of his legs with a quick swipe that ended any further threat. "Ah, so he's the one that insulted you."

"Unfortunately for him, yes," he friend said, driving his point home with a punch to the face that sent the man to the ground, unconscious.

Athos and Aramis held their own against another two men that D'Artagnan hadn't previously seen. He looked around for the other man he had seen in the back of the cart and was suddenly thrown off his feet as the enemy in question barreled into him with great force. D'Artagnan groaned after his impact with the unforgiving side of the bridge and spat out some blood from where he had inadvertently bit the inside of his cheek. He scrambled to his feet in the dark, for the moon had gone into some clouds when their fight had begun. He reclaimed his sword when he picked his head up and saw Porthos on the ground shouting and cursing between the two men who were trying to do him a worse injury.

D'Artagnan rushed to his side to make it a fair fight but both Spaniards ran when they saw him coming. For only a second D'Artagnan stopped to see what had been done and was furious to see that not only had they disarmed Porthos and knocked him off his feet, but they had injured him while he was down and defenseless, stabbing him clean through in his right thigh and stomping on the arm of his sword hand. The latter injury, even through the large man's shirt, stuck out at an odd angle and told the Gascon all he needed to know without having to differ to a physician.

"Bastards," Porthos cursed, holding his bleeding calf in his other hand and cradling the broken arm to his chest.

D'Artagnan would have stayed to tend to his injured friend but the logical part of him saw nothing but red. Revenge and stubborn perseverance that their plan not fail and that those villains pay for acting the way they had ruled his feet. Porthos called after him but he ignored his friend's calls with a slightly guilty heart. D'Artagnan growled as he full out sprinted down the streets, shouting after the Spaniards as he went, sometimes in his own native tongue and half in theirs.

"Come back here, you cowards!"

* * *

Athos turned at hearing D'Artagnan's cry and groaned when he saw the boy chasing after two Spaniards that were trying to escape. He finally finished quick with his man, who had been a far more formidable adversary than he had first surmised, disarming him and dealing a vicious and debilitating blow that was sure to keep him down until the cavalry arrived-speaking of which, he thought in annoyance, where the hell were they?!

"D'Artagnan," Athos called, part in outrage due to their now broken oath. But his call was in vain because the boy continued running without hearing him. Just before he disappeared around a corner Athos heard the rest of their musketeers arrive behind them and join in to detain the wounded adversaries. He turned to Aramis who was holding a man at his mercy with his sword. He too had heard their young friend take off and cast another worried glance at Porthos who was sitting up with a firm grimace on his face.

"Go, Athos," Aramis said. "Our friends can handle this and I'll see to Porthos."

* * *

Athos nodded, needing nothing more, and took off after the boy, cursing at regular intervals and planning exactly what he would do once he found D'Artagnan.

"Vayas, Mateo," (Go, Mateo!) one of them shouted in a rough voice. "Vayas!" Then the same man spun around, didn't bother to draw his sword, and engaged D'Artagnan in an all out no-holds-barred fist–fight street brawl. He knocked the boy's sword away bare-handed and with ease-to which D'Artagnan would have colored in embarrassment in front of his superiors if he weren't busy trying not to be manhandled into submission.

Seeing as how the man was taller, leaner, and stronger than him, D'Artagnan was hard-pressed to gain the upper hand, never mind preventing the other man from escaping. For every punch and blow he landed, his adversary delivered three. At one point or another pain disappeared into the background when you had to fight for your own survival. One particular fist to the face had him tasting and spilling more blood from his mouth, but he retaliated in kind by grabbing the man's head and introducing it to his knee. This wasn't the first brawl he'd gotten himself into, and it certainly wouldn't be his last.

The Spaniard stumbled and D'Artagnan used the moment of weakness to catch his own breath. "Has perdido," D'Artagnan exclaimed. (You've lost!)

The Spaniard glared at him, but did not advance. Some shock in his face registered, likely due to the fact he hadn't expected a small French boy to know his native tongue. D'Artagnan would have smirked at that small victory, but he was too busy trying to remember the correct words and form them behind bruised and bloody cheeks and lips. "Tus amigos están presos y que pronto lo sera," D'Artagnan continued. "Dar seguridad y guardar lo que el honor que le queda." (Your friends are prisoners and you soon will be. Give up and save what honor you have left.)

"No hay tal cosa," the man responded, cold and deadly. (There is no such thing!)

D'Artagnan lunged for his sword but his enemy was faster and ran into him, wrapping his arms around his small middle, and tackled them both into a newly furnished stone balustrade on the small staircase outside a noble's house. The damp cement gave way but did nothing to cushion the impact on D'Artagnan's back. He cried out as the pain ricocheted up to his head and down to his legs, stunning him momentarily.

The Spaniard groaned at the impact but recovered enough to pull out a dagger from his belt. As he brought the blade down to finish his opponent, D'Artagnan dodged it by a thin margin, receiving a scrape on the side of his face for it. Dizziness disorientated his vision and made his limbs heavy and awkward but he managed to gain some leverage and start pummeling the man's head with his fists, growing more desperate by the minute to end the fight before his strength left him completely.

But the bigger man threw D'Artagnan off him like he was a rag doll and staggered to his feet. D'Artagnan was slower, gritting his teeth against the sharp immobilizing pain in his back, but he was ready when the Spaniard came at him again. The rest of the fight was vague. All he knew was the shaky adrenaline energizing his body and the pain that was slowing it. Sure he had been faster, but he was pitted against an experienced fighter who fought dirty and probably only carried a sword to play a part. And, he suddenly realized, his first mistake had been expecting that their match wouldn't stoop to such a low level of sportsmanship.

The Spaniard dealt him a strong uppercut and then grabbed the side of his head and rammed it down to meet the stone that was left intact of the staircase.

With a sickening crack, D'Artagnan knew no more but darkness.

* * *

Athos saw the injury, saw D'Artagnan fall like a lead weight, and he saw the boy not get up afterwards. Fear seized in his chest and spurred him on faster to his friend's aide. The Spaniard drew his own sword and moved to deal a killing blow, and Athos neither shouted a warning nor tried to keep his footfalls silent as he approached and swung out with his rapier, catching the villain in the face. The Spaniard saw him at the last moment and screamed in pain and clutched at his face as he pulled back. Athos paused for only a second to check on the boy's condition. D'Artagnan was still out cold and hadn't moved an inch from where Athos had seen him fall. Though on the inside he was raging for the villain's blood, somehow his head kept him still and close to the boy.

"Hijo de perra," (You son of a bitch!) the Spaniard spat between his bloody fingers, brandishing his sword in a blind rage.

"To me, villain," Athos threatened. "Or your miserable life will end slower than you think!"

"Lucio," another man called, down the street. "Tenemos que irnos!" (We must go!)

Lucio panted and glowered as if looks could kill, but Athos' sword was steady and he met those murderous eyes with a deathly cold pair himself.

"Vaminos, Lucio," (Let's go, Lucio!) his friend called again. "Ahora!" (Now!)

Lucio spat a mouthful of blood at Athos, and it took nearly all of his self-restraint not to retaliate. He pointed at the Frenchman with his sword. "Que te vas a arrepentir el día de hoy!" (You will rue this day!)

"As will you," Athos seethed, understanding enough from his schooling days to know when he was being threatened.

Athos didn't put his rapier away until both villains were out of sight and he could no longer hear them. Then, he moved with a purpose, stooping by the boy's side and trying but failing to rouse him. He felt the boy's head for the injury he witnessed and noticed that the dark pool beneath the boy's head hadn't been a shadow.

It was a dark pool of blood.

Blood that was staining his hands.

Blood that had no business seeping out in the first place!

"No," he gasped. He hastily shrugged off his cloak, balled it up and gently lifted the boy's bloody head to pillow the material underneath it. Then he grabbed a handkerchief in his pocket and pressed it to the boy's head to staunch the flow. "You stupid little _fool!_"

Fear was something Athos never admitted to. Ever. And though he was not immune to its power, he learned over time to tame it-wild as it still was in moments like this. Because if he gave into those fears, those incessant thoughts and memories of-

_Not again. Not again. Dear God, not again!-_

…then he could be of no use, no help when his friend needed him most. And more than anything he absolutely hated feeling or being useless. So it was with steadier hands that he searched his pockets and pulled out another handkerchief-one of Aramis'-and added it to the already soaked one. He looked around, wildly, and to his dismay found no guards or musketeers in sight, or perhaps within calling distance. Then his eyes landed on something glittering by the boy's side. With one hand on the boy's head he reached out with the other one to see what it was.

In the scarce moonlight a gold-hilted dagger shone bright enough to reveal a small, if slightly worn, crest at the top of the blade just below the hilt. He would have stuck the blade in his belt but he froze when the barrel of a musket was placed at the back of his head. He guessed that it was the owner of the house come to see who had disturbed his home and destroyed his property, so he reigned in his rampant emotions and spoke with an authority that would have cowed the most staunch of soldiers he had the pleasure of knowing. "I am a musketeer of the king's guard, monsieur," he declared. "You would do well to _lower _your musket."

"Athos," a familiar voice asked in surprise.

The musketeer spun around and stared at his good but old friend above him in confusion. Memory counted the years for Athos, reminding him of the long periods of time between visits and letters, but despite that negligence, he was more than glad to be in the man's company at present. "Mainard?"

"I'll be damned." The tall bearded man lowered his gun with a smirk. He looked around for the Spaniards who ran off, back to his frightened family beyond the doors of his house, then gestured down to the still D'Artagnan with the same air of urgency that Athos was radiating. "That one of your boys?"

"Yes," was all Athos could manage.

"I'll go fetch the guard and a physician," Mainard said, giving his musket over to his eldest and shutting him behind the door before taking off. "Don't move him!"

"Hurry," Athos called after him.

Not too long after Mainard disappeared from sight did the boy start coming around. His eyes fluttered open. His breathing hitched as he tried to move, and he moaned in discomfort and pain from his efforts.

"Lie still," Athos said, holding D'Artagnan down. "You've hit your head pretty badly. Help should be coming soon."

The boy obeyed probably just to keep the pain at bay instead of actually heeding his warning. But moments later D'Artagnan was again trying to sit up, mumbling nonsense and waving, or attempting to wave, his arms at Athos to either keep him away or use him as leverage to get up. Athos tried to be patient with the boy but that virtue wore out the moment the boy's face turned pale and he turned to the side to vomit the insides of his stomach.

Though Athos inwardly sighed at the inconvenience, he held onto D'Artagnan's thin frame and kept him from falling over into his own mess. He wondered where the strength for the strong retching came from, and from the looks of it so did the boy. After he was done, D'Artagnan shook like a leaf and gasped for breath. He clutched at Athos' arm that was snug around his waist. "Easy, boy," Athos whispered in his ear. "I have you."

D'Artagnan seemed to breathe easier at that, and-dare Athos think it-appeared a bit stronger and more about his wits than before. "Th-Thank y-you, m-"

That word. That one traitorous word instilled such a fit of unspoken but harsh terror in Athos that it seemed to make every hair on his body stand on end. Breath had been stolen from his body by that unfamiliar word, and left him as empty as a punch to the gut would have done. And those lively eyes…

That young face…

Those features he knew so well…

They turned foreign and unrecognizable, slapping him in the face with an intense gravity of wrongness.

"What did you say," Athos whispered, unable to confront such an absurd truth, not with this unnamable icy chill in his heart.

"I would properly beg your pardon, monsieur," D'Artagnan said with a pained but blank look. "But I do not believe I know you…"


	3. Some strange routine life (Part One)

**Chapter Three – Some strange 'routine' life (Pt. 1)**

The hurting power of numbness makes physical pain seem like child's play in comparison. There's no sense of time or self when it comes. All you know is an inadequacy so big that it fills you to the brim and overflows without a care for you in the process. Your merits, your skills and talents, even your basic human instincts all seem worthless. Not good enough. Not against something intangible like this.

"Where am I," D'Artagnan asked, eyes darting around them like a moth that found itself too close to a burning flame.

"Paris," Athos found himself replying, disbelief constricting his throat.

How could he think or form a coherent thought when all that was replaying in his mind was that terrible moment when he could only watch, helplessly, as his friend-his companion-his…D'Artagnan fell to a foe Athos should have taken, would have had he foreseen, had he run just a little bit faster, had he tried to scare the man off, had he been thinking above those damned traitorous thoughts of protecting the boy at all costs…

"Paris," the boy exclaimed, softly. "What business would I have in Paris?"

But Athos hadn't done any of those things. And those failures burned within him, fueling the already roaring flame that raged he do something now, anything to fix this. "Paris _is_ your business," Athos said, biting out each word as if it took the power of a god to do so. "Since you serve her and her king. I am warning you, boy, if you are pulling some kind of _prank_…"

He stopped in the middle of his threat when he recognized pure honest confusion. D'Artagnan stared down at the musketeer emblem on his clothes, then moved to wipe away the sweat and blood dripping into his eyes. But he winced when his shaky hand rubbed against the wound, and he pulled it back only to find it covered in blood. If Athos didn't know any better he would have thought it was the first time D'Artagnan had ever seen his own blood because his face was stuck in some place between fascination and revulsion.

"This isn't right…" the boy whispered. "Am I dreaming? I must be-this isn't right at all. I was at home-How did I get here? Where are my parents?" Then he started trembling something worse, something short of full bodily convulsions, than he had after he'd thrown his guts up. D'Artagnan jerked away from Athos and scurried on all fours, and not all that fast or graceful like he usually managed, until he bumped into the wall of the building behind him. Somehow he'd also gotten his sword out and brandished it wildly to drive Athos back.

Athos growled out loud as he barely dodged a swipe that would have rendered his arm permanently useless. "Damn it, boy," he cursed. "What the hell are you-!"

"Stay away from me if you value your life!"

It was a vicious threat, one that came from a baser need for survival and not from any kind of logic or reasoning. Athos would have smirked at the realization that the boy did in fact possess some kind of self-preservation, but there was currently a sword in his face. And Athos never took a threat lightly. "_D'Artagnan-_"

The boy looked at him sharply, then put on a brave face when he spoke, faint but clear. "You know me, _how?_"

It sounded more like an accusation than a question. So, Athos backed off a fraction to soften his approach. "_Yes_, I do-"

"I don't know you-Who are you and why are you here? Why am I here?"

"Do you not remember chasing that villain from the bridge?"

"Villain," D'Artagnan asked. He paused and for a split-second Athos thought he saw the faintest hint of recognition dawn in his face. "Did he insult me?"

"Probably. He was a Spaniard."

D'Artagnan shook his head, then thought better of it, groaning as he leant back against the wall. "No, no the last thing I remember…"

Athos waited on bated breath, crouched with aching knees on the hard sidewalk in suspense, but he paid his own needs no mind. "The last thing you remember…?"

A brief look of pure terror passed through his young friend when he voiced Athos' worst fears between gasps for more air. "I don't know! I don't know-I don't know what I know-or where I am-how I'm here…My head," he moaned. The boy pressed a hand to his forehead and suddenly keeled forward.

Athos wanted to prevent D'Artagnan from injuring himself further but meeting that same infuriating blade again, and nearly missing a well-placed swipe, was the last straw. "Put that stupid thing away, right now!"

"Why should I," D'Artagnan hissed. "I don't know you-"

"Yes, you do," Athos shouted in frustration, his voice echoing down the streets. "That crack in your head has knocked your senses loose, boy. Unless you want to die on the streets from your own lunacy you need to stop acting like a caged animal!"

"Well it's damn hard not to with a _complete stranger_ yelling at me like you are!"

Athos seethed as he tried to catch his breath, itching to stand up and pace in the street. Porthos would have laughed, he supposed. Because looking at the boy right now was like looking into a damned mirror. Where was Mainard? Where were Porthos and Aramis? Either one of them would have been miles better at dealing with this than he.

D'Artagnan clenched his eyes shut and dropped his head. His hand shook under the weight of his sword but, under valiant and stubborn will, he kept it aloft. This kind of vulnerability in his friend was familiar to him, and painfully so because he had been made witness to the worst kind of it, and not of his own volition. Athos knew those layers of D'Artagnan well because they plagued him nearly every damn night he dared to close his eyes. They robbed him of sleep, his peace of mind, and as maddening as it was each night seemed to do worse damage than the one before. He often wondered when he would hit his breaking point. And surprisingly, this wasn't it.

"I could have taken you just then," Athos said, softer this time and with a strangely steady voice. "But I didn't."

D'Artagnan opened his eyes and tried to drag himself up straighter. "Your point?"

"You can trust me-"

"Trust you? Nevermind why-how can I? You could be lying, trying to con me. You could have taken me here-"

"All the way from Gascony," Athos asked. "For what end?"

D'Artagnan paused to study him and shortly came to what Athos deemed the most ridiculous conclusion of the night. "You don't look like a murderer…"

Though he was severely tempted, Athos resisted strong urge to roll his eyes. "_Pray tell,_ would you know one if you saw him?"

"…probably not."

Athos could tell that D'Artagnan's strength was draining fast, and though he normally would have been happy enough to let the little fool fall into a stupor so he was easier to handle something in him made him see the need to gain the boy's trust. And if he couldn't do that now, then things would undoubtedly be all the more difficult when the boy would need better attention than what he could offer. "Who else do you have?"

It was a harsh truth, but D'Artagnan fell silent either way. Athos didn't want to imagine what the boy was feeling because he wasn't ready to accept the truth himself, but that didn't stop a sudden spurt of guilt that rushed through him. So he bargained with himself and the boy, already knowing the outcome. "Name me one person in this city that you know and I will take you to him, I swear it on my honor as a musketeer…and a friend."

D'Artagnan stubbornly shook his head, losing more focus and attention as he did. "Don't-ve many friends."

Athos clenched his useless fists down by his sides and made the last move he could think of. "Regardless, one stands in front of you. The question is what are you going to do about it?"

He almost abandoned his efforts, but D'Artagnan beat him to it with a soft consent, after he couldn't hold his sword up any longer. Needless to say, Athos didn't waste any time once the weapon clattered to the ground. The stench of blood made him cringe, but having the boy safe in his arms made things remarkably better than they had been seconds prior. D'Artagnan looked up at him through fluttering eyelids, still managing some garbled kind of speech-which Athos took as a good sign. "Is't bad?"

Athos sighed, shifting him into a more comfortable position and had another look himself. "Very, you idiot."

"Srry…cn't remmber-"

"Don't remind me. Stay quiet and relax for a moment." Though the delivery was a bit gruff, the message got across because D'Artagnan did just that. Even when Athos pressed a bloody handkerchief to his head again the boy grimaced but didn't protest. And by the time Mainard returned, slightly red in the face from running, D'Artagnan was almost out cold again.

"Sorry, Athos-"

"It's fine. Can we move him?"

"Yes, the physician said as long as he's woken up it's safe."

Mainard offered help but Athos declined, not too keen on the strange idea of someone else helping him carry the boy inside. Maybe it was to pacify his own wants. Maybe it was in compensation for Aramis and Porthos' absence. Maybe it was his own guilt at work, telling him that the least he could do after failing to protect the boy was this small deed. Either way, Mainard didn't question him and went on ahead to open the door and direct them through the hallway to the kitchen.

Athos set D'Artagnan down on the table while Mainard stoked the fire back to life. It seemed an infinite age before the physician arrived and though Mainard tried to distract Athos by cushioning D'Artagnan's head on a small pillow and making small conversation nothing could seem to happen fast enough. While the physician was in the midst of cleaning D'Artagnan's wound to get a better look, Aramis and Porthos came in on quiet feet with similar looks of dismay.

"What happened, Athos," Aramis asked.

He bolstered through the account while Mainard ushered Porthos to a chair for his leg. All three men cringed when he came to the injury itself. Afterwards, Athos frowned, unsure of how to continue. "But that's not the worst part…"

"What is," Porthos asked, wary of the answer.

"Memory loss," the physician asked, interrupting.

Athos looked at the small man and could do nothing but nod in confirmation at those pitying eyes.

A pained but resigned look passed through Aramis' features. "How bad?"

"He didn't know who I was," Athos whispered to Aramis as he passed him. He'd had enough of being here, of sitting and watching as the physician made soft noises at the ghastly wound that never should have been there in the first place, of waiting for news, of facing these absurd circumstances. He rubbed the side of his head to stave off the start of an intense headache, determined to ignore the stubborn dried blood still under his fingernails, and the fact that it had been there before, not so long ago.

The physician finished bandaging the young musketeer's head and turned around again. "It may only have been temporary, monsieurs-"

"And if it wasn't," Athos snapped.

"Then time will tell, as all injuries do."

Athos huffed and started pacing the length of the room to vent his frustration. No one moved to stop him.

"Will he be all right," Aramis asked.

"Don't let the blood worry you, son. He should be fine in a few days time as long as he gets plenty of rest. Try not to let the boy overexert himself. Now, his memories may come back slowly or perhaps all at once or…"

He stopped when he noticed Athos glaring daggers at him. Aramis was about to rectify the situation, but Mainard stepped in and ushered Athos into the hallway. After he reluctantly went the physician cleared his throat and continued, under softer glares from Aramis and Porthos.

"It could take hours, days, months-I don't dare say years for further upsetting your friend but you must be prepared for the possibility that the boy may _never_ recover them. I wish there were an easier way of telling if that were true, but regrettably there is not. Repairing the mind is a difficult process to judge, and most men like myself put more faith in God than they do medicine on such matters."

"Then what good are you," Porthos growled.

Before Aramis could interject or apologize for his companion, the doctor stepped forward and held his ground like a soldier himself. "I don't say this to be cruel. I only mean to deter you all from any false truths that may do you and the boy further harm. I would think that would be the least of mercies that is in my power to offer."

In the moments that followed, Porthos deflated and leaned back into his chair, grumbling about needing some strong kind of alcohol Aramis hadn't heard of before. The physician turned his back on them to wash his hands, and when he was done, Aramis met him with a quiet apology. "Forgive us, monsieur," Aramis said. "You are not the first one to deliver us ill news regarding our dear friend."

The old man sighed. "What else has the boy suffered?"

"You have noticed the scar on his chest?"

"I have…"

"It was a bullet wound," Aramis confessed. "From the battlefield this past winter."

"A badly infected one," Porthos whispered.

The physician was shocked, but kept his voice and his disbelief quiet. "An injury like that would kill a full grown man twice his size!"

"But not our D'Artagnan," Aramis said with a small smile. The former priest laid a hand on the boy's head and brushed some of his hair away from his face. "What else do you advise in this matter?"

The doctor sighed. "Well, aside from the obvious fact that this boy is lucky to be alive, if I can assume he was perfectly healthy before this with no lasting ill-effects from the injury you described…if he gets any worse I want you to fetch me immediately. Routine things may help him along, but I would advise against pushing him too hard. There was a young girl I treated once who similarly lost years of memory from a fall, and under the strain of wanting to remember and the guilt she felt from her family for not being able to do so…her mind broke."

Athos looked on from the doorway in a stony immovable silence, having heard every word. What could they do? What could he do? Worse than being patient was having no direction whatsoever. Being lost was just not something Athos took lying down. And yet here he was, feeling like the ground had dropped out from beneath his feet, because all he could see were those eyes that claimed they didn't know him. Those same eyes that looked to him in fear and pain…and cold-

"What's his name," Mainard asked, crossing to him from the now closed front door.

"D'Artagnan," he whispered, without turning his head.

Mainard made a soft noise of acknowledgment. "I recognize that name well. My father always held that family in the highest of respects."

Athos leaned against the wall and felt the exhaustion start to take its hold over him. "As we do this one."

Mainard didn't say anything and moved to rest next to him. "He's a musketeer?"

"Practically."

"He's so young! They haven't lowered the age requirement?"

"No. He…made his own way into things. In his own fashion."

"And what fashion is that?"

"Stubborn, brazen, and inconceivably foolish."

Mainard nodded in understanding. "Like you then?"

Athos turned a tired look at Mainard, for he felt that his arsenal of glares had been long-since spent.

Mainard smirked. "Pardon, like you _used_ to be."

Athos shook his head and rubbed the length of his face with a tired hand. "You're lucky."

"For getting out of the corps when I did? Have you _any_ idea what terrors and horrors await a married man? A father with sons and daughters who look to you for nearly everything? I spend half my day catching running noses and making up stories while I spend my other half fighting for their food and clothes…as much as a merchant _can _fight for such things, I suppose. With all due respect, old friend, you have no idea!" Mainard paused to chuckle at Athos' innocence, but stopped when he looked over at the worn and worried expression that hadn't left the man since they entered his house. "Or perhaps you do…"

Athos clenched his teeth together and stubbornly refused to reply, winding his arms further into each other, crossed in front of his chest. Mainard put a comforting hand on his shoulder, drawing nearer to whisper in his ear. "It's not the worst thing in the world, you know."

"Papa," a small but fearful voice called.

Both men turned and spotted a young boy, no older than two or three years old, huddled and clutching a wooden peg of the staircase, trying to wedge his way through. Mainard mumbled an apology and went quickly to his younger son's side, stretching his arms out to pull the little one free so he wouldn't fall. When he did the child immediately burrowed himself into his father's embrace. As Athos watched, Mainard slowly paced in the hallway as if he and his son were the only ones there.

"Cauchemar, mon étourneau petits?" (Nightmare, my little starling?)

"Oui, papa." (Yes, father.)

"Pourquoi tremblant-vous?" (Why do you tremble?)

"Il faisait sombre. Je ne pouvoir pas vous trouver." (It was dark. I could not find you.)

"Tu veux, dormir maintenant? (Will you sleep now?)

The boy shook his head with teary eyes, muttering a series of no's into his father's shirt.

"No," Mainard repeated in question, rubbing his son's back. "Voulez-vous rencontrer un de mes amis?" (Would you like to meet a friend of mine?)

The child perked up at that, probably more so at the fact he wasn't being immediately put back to bed, and nodded his head in earnest.

"Athos, this is Leander, one of my youngest. The boy you saw earlier was his older brother, Stephan. Speaking of which," he said, turning back to his son. "Where is your brother?"

"Endormi." (Asleep.)

"Ah, that explains things. Leander, this is an old friend of mine. His name is Athos."

The little boy held up the other hand that wasn't clutched in his father's shirt next to his small face and opened and closed his fingers in greeting. Though smiling was not something Athos did, often, or at all of recent, he spared a small one for the child. "You are the very image of your father, little one."

"Oui, monsieur?"

Athos nodded with softer eyes. Leander smiled and snuggled against his father, trying to hide a yawn. Mainard smiled and patted the child as he shifted him in his arms. "I'll only be a few moments."

Mainard disappeared up the stairs faster than Athos would have liked, because he suddenly didn't like the idea of being alone. He hadn't given much thought to ever having a family. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that his current circumstances described that rather perfectly. Aramis and Porthos had been with him so long that he'd stopped thinking of them as anything less than family. And though D'Artagnan had only been with them for little over a year the boy added…something to their dull and sad lives…or maybe it was just _his_ sad and sorry life he was thinking of.

"D'Artagnan," Aramis said, jerking Athos out of his thoughts. The boy was coming around again, but the looks on Aramis and Porthos' face stopped him from re-entering the room. "Do you not know us?"

"Should I," the boy asked with a fair amount of guilt and a twinge of fear. "'m-I stll…dreaming?"

"Go to sleep, boy," the physician said, with a gentle hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder. "Rest now. All is well."

And D'Artagnan did just that, falling back into slumber as if it were as simple as blowing out a candle flame. Athos, on hearing the arrival of a wagon outside, went to open the front door and send word to Monsieur de Treville of D'Artagnan's injury. He paused just as the messenger asked about the nature of the injury itself. Could the boy wake in the morning and remember everything as if all of this were some crazy dream? That was the excuse he gave himself for making light of the injury and sending the messenger on his way. He turned to go back inside but found Porthos limping down the steps and Aramis carrying D'Artagnan with the physician in tow. As Athos helped Porthos down the steps, Mainard came out and helped Aramis settle D'Artagnan in the wagon with Porthos sitting on the edge.

"Now, remember wake him every three hours and ask him simple things," the physician advised. "His name. Where he is. How old he is. Who the King of Spain is if he knows it, the subject matters not. Ask him things he would know at the drop of a hat. If his memory worsens I'll expect a call from you no matter the hour."

"If his memory does worsen," Aramis said, before climbing up to the front of the wagon. "What can you do?"

"Truthfully, monsieur, I do not know. I have other friends I can consult, friends who specialize in this sort of thing, but you must understand the human mind is a new science nowadays. There is not much we know with certainty, but that does not mean we cannot hope."

Aramis thanked the man as Athos thanked Mainard. "I won't forget this," Athos told him.

"I know you won't," Mainard replied, pushing Athos toward the front seat. "Just see if you can get any money out of those Spaniards so I can repair my railing."

Athos nodded, still in a bit of a daze, as Aramis took the reins and urged the lone horse forward down the streets towards home. Later that night, or earlier that morning when they settled D'Artagnan in his room they took turns keeping watch, and waking him as the physician had ordered. Athos was ready to call the man the first time they did wake D'Artagnan, but the boy had answered every question correctly, albeit a bit slower than usual. None of them got much sleep that night, Aramis and Athos bearing the worst of it checking between D'Artagnan and Porthos once they could convince the big man to rest in his own room. Sometime towards dawn, when Aramis finally succumbed to hours of dozing Athos found he couldn't tear his eyes away from D'Artagnan's pale face in the dim candlelight.

This wasn't how things were supposed to be.

But no amount of wishing, bargaining, or shouting would change things back.

And there was no doubt about it.

He would by no means forgive himself for this.

…ever.


	4. Some strange routine life (Part Two)

**Chapter Four – Some strange routine life (Pt. 2)**

Comfort was his first clue that something wasn't right. The second clue was that it was late morning, judging from the light behind his eyelids. And he was still in bed. His father hadn't come to drag his lazy hide out of bed. Was he sick? There was the pounding in his head, the bandage wrapped between matted locks of his hair, and the faint smell of blood. An injury. But was it an accident? What caused it? He nearly cringed at the idea of what his mother must have been thinking and what horrors he would be forced to endure under her vigilant watch once she found out he was awake. But there was something else that didn't seem right. There were other strange smells that didn't come from his mother's cooking, or from the pastures around his house. And what of the sounds outside of his room-his room? This wasn't his room…

Once he got passed the initial panic and fear of waking up in a place he had no memory of, D'Artagnan dragged an arm beneath him as leverage to give himself a better vantage point of his whereabouts. Through bleary and sleep-heavy eyes he scanned the modest room and the things it contained. Most of the objects out in plain sight were surprisingly things that belonged to him. Others he was not certain about. When he got to the partially open armoire across from the bed he saw more of his things, hung up and placed inside as if they'd been there for quite some time. The window was small but the light that reflected off the building next door made the room fairly bright and well lit. Next door? And what were those familiar sounds growing louder? Horses. And carriages…no, wagons…on cobblestones. This was certainly no place in Gascony. It didn't smell right or feel right at all. He was in a city, that was certain, but which one? Surely not-

His eyes finally landed on a chair by his bedside and a man sleeping in it. On first sight he looked terrible. Exhausted and worn as if he hadn't gotten a wink of sleep in a long time. But by _his_ bedside? Perhaps this wasn't his room or his bed-but then how did that explain D'Artagnan's things strewn about as if they'd been there for months? And what other secrets did that armoire across the room hide if not more of his own things? D'Artagnan bit back a groan as his headache worsened. But he stubbornly turned his attention back to the man in the chair to at least try and solve something of this peculiar mystery that surrounded him.

The man was probably twice his age. His hair was thinning in a few places, and there were small, almost unnoticeable if it weren't for the light of the window, patches of gray here and there. Not married from the absence of a ring. His features and some small details of his clothes made D'Artagnan think he was a noble. But a noble in a place like this? Perhaps he was at one time. In fact, his clothes looked more like…a uniform if anything. The uniform of what, a soldier? That made sense. A guardsman or, dare he even think, a musketeer?

A musketeer.

Paris.

He had seen this man before. Last night. Out on the streets somewhere. It was a fleeting and vague memory, but something definite in all this mess of strangeness. Before he could continue trying to figure out more, and not that he wanted to with his head hurting the way it was, the door creaked open. A thin man with sharp features peeked inside, followed by another one with a rounder face and bigger eyes. D'Artagnan froze under their gazes and must have looked as stupid as a caught doe on a summer's afternoon because he didn't have the faintest idea what to do or say.

"Go on," the man sleeping in the chair droned. "I'll tell you when he wakes."

D'Artagnan blinked. Wasn't that man asleep? Even awake he still looked like he was sleeping. Both men at the door smirked and opened the door wider to come further into the room. The larger of the two walked with a limp and a cane, ignoring the worried glances he was getting from the smaller man. The latter of the two came up behind the chair and leaned forward to speak into the seated man's ear.

"And if he's already awake, Athos?"

The one they called Athos snapped his eyes open and jerked forward in his chair, catching himself at the last moment before falling out of it. The larger man's laughs echoed throughout the house, even when Athos turned to level a heated glare at both of the men behind him. D'Artagnan felt like he should laugh, that he could laugh if he wanted to, but he refrained as the attention in the room abruptly turned to him. Athos looked like he didn't know what to say, and the way the man was looking at him was starting to make D'Artagnan uncomfortable, but he never dropped his gaze.

"How are you feeling, lad," the bigger man asked, sitting down on the bottom corner of the bed with a wince.

D'Artagnan cleared his throat and fought against the nerves in his stomach that were telling him he was in the company of complete strangers. But the logic in his brain told him that they were strangers who had obviously been taking care of him, so they could hardly be deemed as such… "Strange," he replied. "Have I been ill?"

The three men shared a look before turning back to him, all with anxious hopeful expressions. "You hit your head last night and gave us all a good scare," the man behind the chair said, as if there were some underlying question D'Artagnan was supposed to hear and answer.

The explanation certainly sounded correct because his head was still aching something awful and sitting up seemed to only have made it worse. "Oh…I'm sorry if I worried you-"

"You should be," Athos interrupted.

"Athos," the man behind him barked sharply. Even the bigger man who had looked nothing but gentle and warm turned cold and disapproving of what Athos had said to him.

The man in question frowned and then sulked back in his chair, seemingly apologetic for his outburst. "But what that Spaniard did to you was hardly your fault."

"A Spaniard did this to me," D'Artagnan asked. He received three slow nods in return. "Why?"

He could have been wrong, but that simple question seemed to have sucked all the air out of the room. Athos looked positively sick and D'Artagnan suddenly felt guilty for asking, but his curiosity held his tongue in hopes for an answer. The man behind Athos braced both arms on the back of the chair and took a deep breath before speaking again. "D'Artagnan, what is the last thing you remember?"

The image in his mind was clear, and it came as quick as any memory for him ever had. It stood out so clearly in his mind that when he tried to think any farther forward all he received was a jumbled mess. "My home in Gascony," he said. "The night before my birthday."

The man behind the chair went to say something more but silenced himself when Athos held a hand up. "How old are you, boy," Athos asked.

D'Artagnan quirked an eyebrow at the seriousness behind the simple question and replied with an unsaid question of his own in his response. "Sixteen?"

All three faces of his companions fell in varying degrees of horror and disbelief. Athos rose abruptly and turned his back on the rest of them, facing the window but not looking out. The one who stood behind the chair placed a hand over his mouth and tiredly leant on his propped elbow on the back of the chair. The other man who sat on the edge of his bed banged the end of it on the floor in frustration.

"Am I not?" D'Artagnan blinked and sat up straighter, wincing under the strain. Was there something else he wasn't remembering? Why were these men who picked him up off the streets acting this way? As if they'd…known him. He blanched at the realization that there was no other explanation. It fit. It made sense. But if that were true, where were those memories? He racked his mind for answers and found a rush of disjointed and confusing information. Places and people and feelings that were just wrong in such a big maddening mess he tried to vocalize in his efforts to make it make sense. "I remember there was a…fight, a battle-gunshots and I'm running. I know I can't stop but I hit something and-and I…I'm falling. I'm falling from the sky and then I'm not…I'm on a ship-but the ship is-no that doesn't make sense…"

He pressed the heel of his palm against his throbbing head and continued in a race to keep up with the things he barely had time to grasp. "No, no I'm not. I'm not. I'm not falling. Someone caught me and I'm-I don't know where but I know these places, these people, this…pain and-and a darkness with it-I know I should know these things, you, your faces but I don't-I can't-I want to but _damn it all I can't_," he cried, bordering between desperate and hysteric.

The man from behind the chair circled around in a flash and sat by his side, taking him by the arms and speaking in a soft but commanding tone that soothed the worst of his tremors. "No, stop-_Stop_. Stop. It's all right. Don't push yourself. It will come back to you in time. Just breathe. You're safe with us, I promise you."

D'Artagnan let out a groan of pain and leant against the man holding him upright.

"Is your head hurting?"

D'Artagnan nodded, unable to contain a soft sound of discomfort.

"Here," the man said, handing him a glass of water that someone else handed to him. "Drink this. It will help."

He did as he was told, but the pain grew and made his stomach churn. "I feel sick," he moaned.

"It will pass. Lie back down."

He did as the voice told him and tried to breathe through the nausea and pain. Time passed slowly and he began to feel the effects of a fever coming on, but someone put a cool damp cloth on his forehead and that instantly made things better. He looked up and saw two faces but no names with which to accompany them. "What are your names," he asked.

The thinner one who had given him the water offered him a smile that didn't reach his eyes and spoke softer than he had before. "I am Aramis."

"Aramis," D'Artagnan echoed, testing the name on his tongue and finding it somewhat familiar.

"And I am Porthos," the bigger man supplied with the same volume.

"Porthos…"

Aramis glanced across the room and D'Artagnan followed his line of vision. "And our other friend is-"

"Athos," D'Artagnan guessed.

The man spun around from his spot by the window and looked as tense and ready to spring into action like a threatened full-grown stag, but he didn't. He stayed despite his discomfort and D'Artagnan took that as a good sign to voice the one question that was at the forefront of his jumbled thoughts, the one question he needed answered above all the rest. "Tell me," D'Artagnan asked in a stronger voice. "Our friendship is obvious to me but how did this all start? How did we meet?"

Athos, Porthos, and Aramis all shared a look. And D'Artagnan thought that must have been a common thing among them, among friends who must have known each other for a very long time, communicating without speaking. To even know someone that well, to be able to tell their thoughts, wants, or needs by a simple look seemed extraordinary to him. It made him wonder, and not for the first time, whether he'd been able to find a place in their routine life, whether they'd let him in, and to what extent he let them into his own life.

One warm smile from Aramis chased those insecurities away. "Unexpectedly," his friend began. And, hours later, he had a much better idea of what kind of place he'd carved out for himself since leaving home.

* * *

Porthos sat by the boy's bedside, twirling his cane and listening to Aramis trying in vain to gain entry to Athos' room. Sometime during their tale Athos had slipped from the room. At the time neither he nor Aramis paid the sound of the closing door any mind, mostly for D'Artagnan's sake and the appearance of normalcy. But as soon as they'd finished, and when D'Artagnan gave into his light dozing, Aramis quit the room. The former priest had been at it for twenty minutes with no result.

"His stubbornness will outlast the gates of hell," the former priest hissed, fuming quietly as he re-entered the room.

"Best to leave him be for a while," Porthos whispered back to him.

"If we leave Athos to his brooding who is to say he will come out of it on his own? You know how he is. And surely you remember how he was last winter."

"Aye," Porthos said with a warning to his tone. "I remember it well. And so do you. But I also know when to leave a man be and when to kick him in the arse for being an arse. He's not had a moment's peace since this happened. Let him have it for now, Aramis."

The other man deflated a bit at that and leaned against the wall, seeming to sink into himself a little. "Athos was always the voice of reason when it came to things like this," Aramis murmured.

Porthos turned to him, affronted. "And we've no brains in our heads?"

Aramis smirked. "Not you, surely."

"Easy now, I'd hate to wake the lad."

Aramis smiled at first, but as the silent moments passed between them the smile disappeared, and he whispered, more softly than Porthos had ever heard him. "I don't know how to fix this, Porthos."

Porthos followed his friend's line of sight and landed on the sleeping peaceful boy. A boy who was their dear friend, their trustworthy comrade, their…well, little brother in all proper senses of the title, even if Athos wanted to deny it at every single opportunity it came. "Neither do I," Porthos replied. "And neither does Athos. But what can we do?"

"Nothing. Nothing that I know of. Nothing that anyone knows of." Aramis straightened and replaced some of the sadness with determination. "I must go to the church. God answered our prayers before. Perhaps he is still listening."

"Aramis," Porthos called him back. "What will we do when Treville calls? Or Essarts?"

Aramis scoffed. "My answer for now? Lie to them until his memory returns."

"Until?"

"Yes," his friend replied, hard and final.

"And will your answer be different when you return?"

Then Aramis sighed, before leaving. "Most likely."

Porthos shook his head, leaned the cane against the boy's bedside and buried his face in his hands, rubbing them down his face and past his cheeks. He was awake. This was not some horrible dream. He hadn't ingested any foul wine or spoiled food. He wasn't sick and he wasn't hallucinating. D'Artagnan was lying in his bed in front of him without his memories. Yes, the boy knew who he was, but what did that mean to them when he couldn't remember the friends that he had carved out a place for himself with? Friends who had shunned him at first. Challenged him to duels. Scoffed at him. Thought him young and immature. Inexperienced and naïve.

Porthos felt like the naïve young boy now. In the face of all this he felt smaller, like a forgotten crumb beneath the dinner table. And if he felt that way, he supposed Aramis felt something similar, and Athos something even more wretched. Porthos straightened in his chair and turned an ear towards the hallway, keeping his eyes on D'Artagnan and his ears trained for Athos. Because if that man had his way, the Spaniards they did manage to capture would have been better off tossed over the bridge and drowned in the Seine.

* * *

_D'Artagnan breathed the spring air deep into his lungs, closing his eyes with the back of his head cradled in his hands in the tall grass. The wind rustled the thick cotton of his loose shirt and sent a chill to the parts of his chest that were still wet with sweat, reminding him that winter had indeed passed, and that summer would soon come to take its place. He smiled peacefully, thinking of all the work there was to do under a warm sun instead of at the mercy of dark overcast days. He hated the winter only for what it was supposed to bring, and almost always failed to do. A few inches here. Perhaps a foot once every few years there. Why did winter have to come if it couldn't snow?_

"_I know what you are thinking," Miguel said, sitting above him._

"_Do you," D'Artagnan asked._

"_Absolutely. And you are mad to think it."_

"_And what am I thinking?"_

_Miguel leaned down, close to D'Artagnan's face, trying to goad his friend into revealing his secrets, as was his usual and playful wont. But D'Artagnan rarely gave in, mostly out of stubbornness, sometimes out of playfulness himself, but sometimes-like today-out of that something else he couldn't put a name to. It had something to do with both of the afore mentioned reasons, but it also had a dose of ease that came with the comfort of a close friendship. It had something to do with trust. And it also had something to do with a homeless need to instigate, to challenge. _

_And Miguel was always so obliging in that respect. _

_Today, D'Artagnan opened his eyes and looked into Miguel's face, inches from his with a cool calmness and a sneaking smirk. "Well?"_

_Miguel bit the inside of his lip before replying. "Snow-"_

_D'Artagnan groaned out loud and pushed Miguel off of him. His friend chuckled. "How many times have I told you, friend?"_

"_I'm an open book, yes we know," D'Artagnan groused._

"_And yet you still challenge me?"_

_He turned to face Miguel, lying beside him. "Well, you can't be right all the time."_

"_I am not. Only with you, of course."_

_He opened his mouth to reply, but paused. "I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult…"_

"_Maybe both. Why not have both? The best of good and bad, like an old forgotten wine in the stores of a cellar, bitter and dry from ages of loneliness, but savory and rich in new discovery, subtle sweetness in remembered agonies and…liberation."_

_D'Artagnan was momentarily struck dumb. Even when Miguel turned to look at him in waiting for a response, he still had a hard time with his own simple words that came to mind. "That's good."_

"_Sí," Miguel said in realization, digging for his journal and lead stick to write it down. "Sí, es muy bueno!" (Yes, it is very good!)_

_D'Artagnan shook his head in amazement as he leaned back on his arms, watching Miguel transcribe it in French, then again in Spanish with the utmost concentration. "If only I had your skill with words…"_

_He hadn't thought Miguel had heard him, but not a few seconds later the teen chuckled. "If only I had your skill with the sword!"_

"_Well, if you would take up one of my many offers to teach you, then you wouldn't be wishing for skill, now would you?"_

"_And if you would be kind enough to reciprocate and let me teach you your proper letters en español, we would both be left unwanting, sí?"_

"_Gracias a ti, puedo hablar español perfecto." (Thanks to you, I can speak Spanish perfect.)_

"_Perfect_amente._" (Perfectly.) Miguel smirked and wagged a finger at D'Artagnan. "Much to learn, my student. Much to learn!"_

"_Mercy, you bookworm. A day like this shouldn't be missed for a second."_

"_Do you know who you sound like?"_

"_I'm afraid to know the answer."_

"_You do not want to know it."_

"_I don't think I do either."_

"_My aunt," Miguel grumbled, throwing himself back into the wildflowers and grass again. "My thieving, gossip-mongering, cow of an aunt."_

"_She's visiting again, isn't she?"_

"_Save me from this hell, Charles. She is the devil himself."_

"Her_self."_

"_No, _Him_self. She wears those huge dresses for a reason!" Miguel sighed. "If only I had your courage."_

"_To do what? Or do I want to know?"_

"_Do you know what I would do?" Miguel sat up again and pulled D'Artagnan up to a sitting position as well. "I would bring her to church with us on Sunday. I would pray with her. I would kneel with her. I would go to accept the communion with her, but do you want to know what I would really do?"_

"_What," D'Artagnan asked with trepidation._

"_I would wait until she held out her hands for the host. I would wait still as the priest put it in her hand. Then, I would pull up the skirts when she replied A_men_!"_

_They both burst out laughing. And when D'Artagnan couldn't stop laughing, doubling over to try and stop himself, Miguel's laughter only fueled his own. When both boys calmed down enough to take a breath, D'Artagnan turned to Miguel, still gasping for air. _

"_Is she really that miserable?"_

_Miguel pulled a face. "Must you ask? Thank you for that, Charles."_

"_For what?"_

"_Your laughter. And mine. Oh, they are like a sweet music to my soul that has been hungering and hungering."_

_D'Artagnan watched Miguel lay back and stare at the sky. Every now and then his friend would turn melancholy, and now was one of those times. He would grow quiet and distant, as if a great burst of happiness brought on some dark cloud. D'Artagnan knew it on sight. He hated seeing it. And he was learning how to quickly dispel it. _

"_Your Juan del Enzina has nothing on you, Miguel. People will read your poems centuries later like you're doing right now with your Cervantes and Vega. Someday after we're both long gone you'll be teaching another boy just like yourself through the words you've left behind. You'll be his Enzina."_

"_You are too kind, Charles," Miguel whispered with an empty smile, shaking his head. "But sometimes life is too simple for those grander temptations."_

"_Who says they can't be anything more?"_

"_Our betters."_

"_And who says they are better than us?_

_Miguel looked up at D'Artagnan, and for a moment the sadness abated. In its place something else sat, unmasked, but unknown. D'Artagnan leaned down for a closer look, inches from the Spanish teen, but not challenging or playful. Somewhere down the hill his father was calling him back to the fields, but he didn't move. Miguel still hadn't said a word. And a small part of D'Artagnan worried that his friend wasn't anywhere in there to be found. _

"_Miguel?" _

_Those dark eyes finally looked into his own, and they stole his breath because suddenly he had his answer, suddenly he knew. _

_He knew why Miguel wasn't speaking._

_And D'Artagnan wasn't sure if he wanted to know why he couldn't either._

D'Artagnan woke with a soft gasp and tears on both sides of his face. He looked down from where his gaze had been fixed on the crack in the ceiling and noticed that someone was calling his name. Aramis leaned into view and put a hand on his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," D'Artagnan said, almost too choked with emotion to answer. "Nothing's wrong."

The other man looked skeptical when he asked, "Are you certain?"

Charles wasn't. But D'Artagnan was. "I'm fine," he said, hands yearning for those blades of grass and long flower-stems. Something familiar. Something he knew. Or used to know.


	5. Some strange routine life (Part Three)

**Chapter Five – Some strange routine life (Pt. 3)**

"If he wakes make sure he stays in bed," Aramis said to a fidgeting Planchet in front of him. "He needs his rest."

Planchet nodded, itching to return to the pot of stew he was preparing in the kitchen. "Yes, master Aramis-"

"And if he needs anything you are to fetch it for him."

"Of course, m-"

"If he's hungry give him something light."

"Well, there's a pot of-"

"Make sure he has plenty of drinking water."

"Well, there's also a pitcher-"

"And whatever you do, Planchet do not let him out of this house. When I say keep him in bed I mean confined to his room and no other-"

During the one-sided exchange Porthos had donned his cloak, taken his hat, and leaned against the doorway waiting for Aramis to finish. Athos had gone on ahead, giving them both a flimsy excuse and a strong suspicion that they'd have to drag him home dead drunk again. Porthos sighed to himself. The one stench that he could not seem to get rid of in his finer clothes was Athos' particular choice of inebriation. And damned if the stuff didn't last through two washings during one his more moodier weeks. The price of brotherhood, Porthos thought to himself. Turning his mind back to the present he frowned when it looked like Aramis wasn't about to stop anytime soon, so Porthos tried to interject himself. "Aramis-"

"And, for all that is holy, do _not_-"

"Aramis!"

"What," the former-priest exclaimed, turning his heated gaze onto Porthos.

Porthos said nothing but gave him a stern look in return that seemed to deflate the younger man from his endless rant. "I think the poor man's got a handle of things from here. After all he dealt with the three of us for years, what's only one charge in the boy?"

"You know how serious this is!-"

"Yes, and by this point so does the damned servant thrice over! Come along, mother hen," Porthos said, grabbing and pulling Aramis along by the shoulder. "We've shifts to cover and cardinal's guards to bother ourselves with."

"Where's Athos?"

"Where he usually is when he's in a mood. Piss-drunk." Porthos pushed the younger man out the door and just when Planchet thought he was free, Porthos turned back and pointed a finger into his chest. "You watch over that boy, you hear me?"

Planchet nodded, wide-eyed, and with his tongue stuck in his mouth.

After that Porthos took his leave and left the stables with Aramis. He tried not to snap at the younger man again when he caught him looking back towards the house over his shoulder. Of all four of them, the man who least understood the art of subtlety was himself. And if Porthos thought Aramis was being obvious, well then half of Paris would know something was up by the time they reported for duty. It also didn't do any favors for Porthos' own peace of mind. Between the two of them, Porthos and Aramis had been able to switch shifts the past few days so that one of them was home with D'Artagnan while the other balanced guard duty with 'Athos-duty.' But today was the first time they couldn't avoid being shifted together.

Treville was starting to become suspicious of their behavior. And though the man said nothing, they knew when they were on the verge of being found out despite the captain having his hands full with the stubborn Spaniards. Athos somehow kept reporting for duty as normal, but those who knew him stayed clear of him as they had in previous years when he was in one of his darker moods. Perhaps it appeared that all was normal to most, but to those with a sharp eye, like Treville, something was bound to slip soon. And Porthos just hoped it wouldn't be his fault.

* * *

It took skill to sneak around weak floorboards that loved to creak under the slightest pressure, especially when one was supposed to be confined to bed for the remainder of the week. But threats never stopped D'Artagnan from satisfying his curiosity before. And his desire to know more about the men who he had such exploits and adventures and battles with was stronger than his fear of getting caught. It wasn't such a hard thing. All it took was patience, waiting for the others to leave for guard duty-as they explained to him the previous night-waiting for Planchet to finish cleaning upstairs, waiting for the right moment to open his door and sneak out.

He was still a little wobbly on his feet, but the headaches this morning were thankfully dull and almost nonexistent. The past few days between all the sleeping and dreaming, and being told to give things just a day more, nearly had him clawing at the walls in madness. These men were far too kind for being kidnappers, and D'Artagnan knew they were simply looking after his well-being, but the scare of an injury he couldn't remember aside, he was still in a place he didn't know with men he couldn't remember. And he wanted answers he couldn't get through the stories they told him every day to help aide his memory.

D'Artagnan tried the door furthest down the hall opposite of his, which was Athos', and found it locked. He frowned, decided not to press his luck, and moved on. Next he tried the room next to his, which was Aramis' and found it already open. He poked his head inside and stared in wonder at the number of books on the shelves across the room. In addition to the collection that was somewhat neatly put away there were short grouped piles of them by the bed, by the desk, on the desk, some on the windowsill with papers stuffed inside, and even more hidden under a clean pile of clothes. Books of all sizes and shapes and colors. D'Artagnan was certain he'd never seen this many books in his entire life and he started wondering how anyone could possibly come by the sheer number in one lifetime. Then he spotted the crucifix hanging on the wall, the well-worn bible on the nightstand next to the bed, and pages upon pages of handwritten verses and thoughts and theses all about religion and faith in Latin.

Well…there was his answer.

But why would someone who was studying to enter into the priesthood spend his time here serving as a musketeer? Why wasn't he in a cloistered monastery somewhere where he could spend every hour of every day devoted to what was clearly his passion in life? Or was it? Was it ever? Why else would he be here? And why did he seem happy to be here if his heart lay elsewhere? Was Aramis unhappy?

D'Artagnan scratched the back of his head and put the papers back on the desk exactly how he'd found them. Just as he was about to exit the room, with more questions than he had when he walked in, something caught his eye. There was a half open drawer of the dresser sticking out, forgotten and nearly unobtrusive. He walked over to push it shut and got a glimpse at what was inside. D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow and then slowly shut the nearly full drawer. He crept across the hall shaking his head in disbelief.

How many handkerchiefs could one man possibly need?

All in all, Aramis' respectful and caring nature made sense-even if his present circumstances and motivations for them remained a mystery. D'Artagnan suspected he was a man of intense intellect and his room did not disappoint him on that assumption. Porthos' room left little to the imagination. One would think he'd stepped into a lord's room rather than a musketeer of the king's guard, but D'Artagnan's bare feet squishing down on the plush rug certainly weren't complaining. And the boisterous and carefree person he'd been introduced to seemed to fit the accommodations and things in it. Practically everything he needed to know about the man was out in the open.

Despite his leg injury, Porthos seemed truly happy being a musketeer. His wardrobe might have suggested he was a little vain and materialistic, but he seemed a man loyal enough to stick by those he cared about even if they didn't share his interests. But there were differences between Porthos and Athos. Athos had a refinement about his actions and words that Porthos didn't. Come to think of it, these three men seemed to be so different from one another. D'Artagnan looked around with a hand on the back of his neck and furrowed brows. Why would a potential priest in Aramis, a probable noble in Athos, and a man who clearly wished he was a noble in Porthos put up with each other in a set of apartments in Paris?

D'Artagnan had always held friendship in as much respect as he did family, and what was going on here surely had to be a great example of that. For how else could such opposite men stand to live with each other? They had their differences, but at the end of the day they compromised and continued going on about their normal business as if quarrels were no large matter. Only men who served together and fought together could live as these three did. And it made the boy wonder what kind of battles they must have seen, what kind of adversaries they must have overcome.

And in all that, where did he fit into the picture?

How did he fit into their normalcy? Or did he at all? Did he jest about things early in the morning or hold his tongue for later? Did he offer help or insight when it came to it or wait respectfully until all other options were exhausted? What was it like riding alongside them on the streets? Fighting by their side? What were dinners usually like afterwards? What did they talk about? What did they avoid talking about?

What should have felt routine was now an insufferable mystery. It was all some whirlwind of a strange dream that was starting to mentally take its toll. Just feeling the endless barrage of questions in his head brought back the familiar sensation of an impending headache. How long had he been standing here thinking? His feet didn't ache, but dizziness started pulling at his balance and reminding him that only yesterday he could barely get out of bed on his own.

His knees almost buckled as he swayed to the side but he caught himself on the armoire and managed to stay upright. A soft sound above his head confused him at first, but before he could turn to find the source, it found him. He cried out as something thick and heavy fell down upon him and caused him in turn to fall. He went down on the floor with a loud thud and struggled with the material to no avail. Seconds later he heard the muffled sounds of someone hurrying up the stairs and into the room.

Planchet made a big fuss when all things were said and done, but D'Artagnan was just happy to be free of the stifling winter cloak that assailed him. "You're certain that you're all right, master D'Artagnan-"

He tried to get a word in edgewise but he was hard pressed to achieve that, what with the servant continuing on a long monologue about the abuses he would suffer should D'Artagnan suffer some further injury under Planchet's watch. In the end, D'Artagnan gave up on trying to assure him he was fine and stood to help him hang the cloak back up. "Let me help you-"

"No, no, no," Planchet exclaimed. "Don't worry about this, young master-"

"Must you call me that," D'Artagnan sighed, stepping back and leaning on the side of the armoire.

Planchet cocked his head to the side on confusion. "Call you what?"

"I'm not really your master am I?"

"Well…technically, yes-but if it helps things I like you much better than the others-Oh, don't tell them I said that, sir-If you don't mind me calling you that-but I mean you're free to do as you please and I shouldn't have asked you to-"

"Planchet! It's fine…really. I won't say a thing. You have my word," he promised, allowing the servant to lead him back to his room.

"You certainly don't look all right. Perhaps you should lie down and-"

D'Artagnan spun around and shook the hands off him. "If I lie down in that bed for a moment longer you'll sooner have a bigger problem on your hands than a sick master," D'Artagnan groused. Then he sighed in regret. "I'm sorry. It's not you, Planchet. It's just…my head-"

"Oh, master Aramis said that if you had any more headaches to-"

"Yes, I know what he said! But that's not it. I have another headache but the problem is not the damned headache. Its…all this strangeness, these things I can't remember. This place isn't…home. And I just can't seem to make sense of things."

And that was the truth of his biggest discomfort in all this. He was feeling so out of sorts that all he wanted was something familiar, something routine that he knew like the back of his hand to help him through this awful mess only he could sort out. But there wasn't anything here that could do that for him, and that realization only made him more upset than he already was.

Then, like a gift from God, he spotted a small wooden box by his bedside that he knew to be his mothers. He ignored Planchet's ramblings behind him and snatched the item up, knowing what lay inside and finding his moods lifting as he traced his nose alongside the sweet-scented closed edges. The ultimate home comfort from his mother entered his mind and made his stomach growl in unabashed want.

"I can make you something to eat if you're hungry, sir. I know an excellent sweet roll recipe that-"

"Actually," D'Artagnan replied, turning with a brighter smile. "I've got something else in mind, for the both of us, if you're open to learning a new recipe?" D'Artagnan smirked at Planchet's dumbfounded but ready-to-please look and lifted the small latch on the box in his hands to show the servant what was inside.

The man predictably gasped and clapped a hand over his mouth. "Is-is that?!-"

"Yes," D'Artagnan slowly explained with a grin. "And we're going to be very careful when we use it."

"When we…?! Goodness," Planchet breathed in disbelief. "Are you certain, young master? Cinnamon is very hard to come by and-" (1)

"I wouldn't have brought it from home if I didn't intend on using it one day, that I do know. Do we have any carrots?"

"W-well," the servant sputtered. "Plenty! Stores! Though master Porthos avoids them like the plague itself, most vegetables for that matter."

"Well, we'd best get started if we want it done by dinner then." All previous discomforts and feelings of weakness and exhaustion left D'Artagnan as he allowed Planchet to lead the way down to the kitchen. The servant pushed him into a chair by the warm hearth, but listened attentively to every detail D'Artagnan gave him as the afternoon ticked by. Finally, D'Artagnan felt productive and had something to do to feel useful.

Later that night, his mother's carrot cake went over better than they both imagined it would. The sour moods that his friends sported once they came through the door, dragging a stumbling Athos, quickly fled once they got a strong whiff of what D'Artagnan and Planchet had been toiling over for the better part of the afternoon. He peeked into the main room and met a chorus of worn but curious reactions.

"What are you doing out of bed?"

"Are you feeling all right?"

"What _is_ that heavenly smell?"

But D'Artagnan kept it a secret until after dinner, and judging by the lack of any leftovers for all five of them, his attempts to win over their favors and lighten the mood amongst them had worked. The only problem was he had failed to rouse any words from Athos. When Porthos later joked at Athos expense, likely to put D'Artagnan more at ease around the man, the three could only watch as Athos abruptly rose from the table and stalked up to his room…slamming the door shut after him. D'Artagnan tried to ignore the little twinge in his chest about the man he knew next to nothing about, but as he finished off his wine he couldn't help but give it life by voicing his concerns.

"Is he always in such a foul mood," D'Artagnan whispered to Aramis, almost afraid Athos would return if he heard himself being talked about.

Porthos shrugged and poured D'Artagnan another glass of wine. Aramis, to his credit, managed a smile at the boy's innocent question and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Most of the time," he admitted. "But he grows on you."

* * *

Athos' mood hadn't changed much over the next couple of days, and though Aramis and Porthos reassured D'Artagnan that leaving the man be was the best course of action D'Artagnan was beginning to wonder for whose benefit it was for. The young man had been cooped up in the house for days after they had discovered him on his feet and though he could venture out beyond his room, the confinement was somehow worse than before. He wasn't sure why they didn't want him to go outside, but growing up in the country drinking in the sunlight every day and hungering for another hard day's work in the fields made him accustomed to the outside air no matter the season. And being without it for so long, being stuck inside forced to watch it pass by without him, seemed a silent torture.

So when he woke up to see the start of another day he made up his mind to do something about it. Aramis and Porthos still slumbered in the morning and Planchet was easy enough to evade. Athos, however, was unpredictable. In fact, of his three companions, D'Artagnan could count on one hand the number of times he had physically seen Athos since waking up here. And it wasn't very many. Had he done something to offend the man that he couldn't remember? That was certainly a possibility. But there were also other facts to consider. He rarely slept. He sparingly spoke. He almost never sat down to eat with them at the table during meals, apart from that one night they had the carrot-cake waiting for them all. And when Athos did eat in his room he didn't take much from the plate that Planchet brought in to him-which led to a very nasty argument between him and Aramis one particular evening.

_D'Artagnan flinched as another loud shout echoed down to where he sat with Porthos at the table. _

_Porthos cleared his throat, rather loudly with a short glare aimed at the floor above them. "You know, lad, you can never underestimate the power of a good bar-song at the end of a long grueling day."_

_D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow and tried to ignore some choice words that wafted down the staircase. "A bar-song?" He thought it sounded enough like a rowdy bar in the house already._

"_Now, what you need to know about taverns is the ones with the worst ale are the loudest. If you want a place with the good kind, it'll be much quieter."_

"_How is that?"_

"_Because most of the men by that point will have drank themselves to sleep."_

_D'Artagnan let out a puff of laughter, which quickly disappeared with a loud crash from Athos room. Porthos cleared his throat loudly again. "Now, as for bar-songs. The best kind are, of course, sung by the women for we must allow them that courtesy. Not all have the voice of angels, mind you, and some songs are oftentimes more suited for the bedroom rather than in the company of dozens of drunken wanting men like myse-er, others, yes, others! Other men who are not us!"_

_D'Artagnan nodded. "Of course-"_

"_But nothing truly beats a good rousing anthem by men with their half empty mugs and good spirits. Holidays make for the best of times. St. Valentine's day especially in my opinion. In fact, a song comes to mind just now that an Irishman taught me one fine evening-"_

_D'Artagnan tried to wave Porthos off as he put his goblet down on the table. "Oh you don't have to-"_

"_My young love said to me," Porthos began to sing, hearty and growing in volume with each passing verse. "My mother won't mind. And my father won't slight you for your lack of kine-Annnnd she laid her haaaaand on meeeeee, and this she did saaaaay-" (2)_

_Though D'Artagnan did his best to listen when Porthos first started, he couldn't hold back wincing as the argument grew in volume upstairs, thus affecting the mirth and voracity to which Porthos' sang._

"_-OUT OF MY BLOODY ROOM, YOU INSUFFERABLE PIOUS ARSE!-"_

"_-NOT WHEN YOUR AGE REFUSES TO REFLECT YOUR ABSENT INTELLECT!-"_

"_IT WILL NOOOOT BE LOOOOOONG, MY LOOOOOOOVE!"_

"_-AND IF YOU SAVED ANY SENSE FOR YOURSELF-"_

"_-I'M THE _ONLY _ONE IN THIS ROOM WITH IT BECAUSE I AM NOT TRYING TO STARVE MY DAMNED SELF-"_

"_-THE CONTENTS OF MY STOMACH ARE NONE OF YOUR GOD DAMNED BUSINESS AND NEITHER WILL IT CONFESS ITS SINS TO YOU, YOU DELUDED GOD-HOUND!-"_

"_TILL OURRR WEDDING DAAAAAYYYY!" Followed by the tell-tale sounds of breaking dishware and slamming doors. _

D'Artagnan shook himself and resolutely ignored the twinge in his head at just the memory of the headache he had that night.

What had made him think of that again? Ah, yes. Athos, and his…puzzling, if occasionally volatile, ways. Well, there was the matter of the wine to consider too, especially with the last incident in mind. It seemed like every day Planchet went out to get a handful more just to keep the racks somewhat stored. It seemed silly to worry about someone when you barely knew them, but who wouldn't when the signs of something being wrong were so obvious? Surely things hadn't been this way before, for all that time he'd spent with his friends since coming to Paris…or had they and D'Artagnan had never said anything?

That didn't seem like something he would do…but then again, not much was making sense to him nowadays.

The small courtyard was slick with morning dew and a few thin clouds of fog that had yet to burn off from the morning sun. The weight of his sword strapped to his waist disappeared as he dropped his head back, closed his eyes, stretched and breathed in the morning air. _This_ was what he missed.

Fresh morning air and sun.

Pure and sweet.

Light and open and free.

Sinfully peaceful…

"What are you doing out here?"

D'Artagnan opened his eyes and spied Athos over by the stables. The man looked somewhat disheveled by lack of sleep and sweaty from exertion already, as if he'd been fencing with invisible partners all night long. Everything about the man screamed tension with variations of 'Get back inside this instant' and 'Leave me alone' but D'Artagnan ignored them and flashed him a smile of 'Good morning' before he shrugged and replied. "I'm not really sure myself. I've always been an early riser."

Athos sighed and looked ready to make his leave-which D'Artagnan wouldn't have been all that surprised by…just disappointed-but leaned back against the door and relented. "As have I," he muttered.

D'Artagnan couldn't help but let the surprise show on his face. Athos was talking to him. After days of silence and sparse meetings the man was finally talking to him! Hope ballooned in his chest and he tried very hard not to let it choose his words, because he'd be damned if he was going to screw up this opportunity. "I'd imagine there aren't too many Parisians who share the same sentiment…the city, I mean, it's quiet. I wouldn't have expected that."

Athos frowned and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Not everyone who resides in Paris grew up here, boy."

"I suppose not. Do you…you don't mean yourself as well?"

Athos nodded.

Well that…he hadn't expected. "Oh. Do you miss the country?"

"No."

"But the winters, surely, they are worse here in the north?"

Athos snorted. "Like hell frozen over."

D'Artagnan laughed. "I thought as much."

Athos sighed and continued avoiding D'Artagnan's gaze. "…you really should be resting."

"Perhaps. But that house is driving me mad. I needed…would it bother you if I stayed out here for a little while?"

Athos finally looked at him and D'Artagnan couldn't help but feel the urge to fidget under the man's sharp gaze. Then something softened, small but noticeable. "No, but it will once you collapse from exhaustion."

"And…if I promise to tell you before that happens?"

Athos stared at him, then pointed to the sword in his hand. "What do you plan to do with that?"

For no reason at all a spark of self-consciousness shot through him and stole the retort that was hot on his tongue. D'Artagnan wasn't sure why but there was something about this man that made him feel a little modest. Sure he'd brought his sword out here to practice…but not in front of an audience! But did that really matter? "What one usually does with a sword, of course," he replied, with an air of confidence he didn't fully feel.

Athos came towards him at a leisurely walk and drew his own sword that lay against the fence. "Come on, then," Athos sighed, resigned and with a hint of disinterest, though it sounded somehow false. "We'll test your balance."

Once D'Artagnan got over the initial shock he readily drew his own sword and tried to hide a grin of anticipation. His father had started practicing with him only a year prior when he turned fifteen, but he was a quick learner and even came up with a few creative moves of his own that his father praised. If D'Artagnan couldn't have those times in the comforts of his home at hand then this would do as something temporary in the mean time. Besides, the challenge of fighting someone new was just too good to pass up, especially from someone he wanted to know more about.

Athos made the first move and D'Artagnan parried off of instinct. But the next move threw him for a loop and had him knocking his opponent's sword away with less grace than a drunkard. He gasped out of surprise and stared in disbelief as they both paused. That was a simple counter…why hadn't he caught it? Athos knocked his sword against D'Artagnan's to get his attention back. He could have been imagining it, but he swore he saw genuine worry in his friend's features.

"Get the sleep out of your brain and focus," Athos chided with the wary eyes of a hawk. "Again."

They continued like before, starting out slow and gradually increasing the speed, but the farther they got the harder it was for D'Artagnan to keep up. Everything simply felt wrong, from the stance to his footwork and even to the weight of his own sword. He knew he was performing poorly, as if he'd never held a sword before in his life, but he was stubborn and tried to remember how to correct the mistakes he was making. And in the process he barely missed a blow that would have done him serious injury had Athos not halted inches from striking him.

"Pay attention," the man snapped.

"I am," D'Artagnan exploded. "I just…I know what I'm doing isn't right, but I don't know how to…It doesn't feel natural and I _don't_ understand why! I've done this a thousand times before-I know it!" He huffed in frustration and turned his back, pacing up and down but failing to find the reason why his sword felt so awkward and unnatural in his hand. "How can something like this make me forget how to fight," he hissed, angry but fearing the answer-if there even was one.

D'Artagnan looked over to Athos for help, but found he wasn't there. He blinked in surprise and turned himself in a circle looking for the man. Perhaps he'd gone back to the stables? "Athos," he called.

The back door to the house opened and he caught sight of the man before he disappeared into the house, leaving D'Artagnan alone, frustrated, and confused in the courtyard.

* * *

**Notes**

**1. Cinnamon around this time was a pretty valuable spice. And through out history it's funny to see how people have gone a little crazy over what lengths they'll go to get it or find out how to grow it. And carrot cake was actually around since medieval times because carrots have a lot more natural sugar in them than other vegetables. And considering that sugar wasn't cheap, this was something of an alternative. **

**2. The song Porthos is singing here is "She Moved Through the Fair." This is an old Irish folk song. The word 'kine' in the fourth line is another word for cattle, so conversely, the meaning refers to the wealth of the potential suitor and not 'kind' as in kindness like it is sometimes translated or sung. **


	6. Feather-light & heavy-handed (Part One)

**Chapter Six – Feather-light and heavy-handed (Pt. 1)**

Aramis knew from the moment he set his sight on D'Artagnan in the stables and witnessed real fear in him, in the boy who seemed incapable of vulnerability since they first met, that Athos was due for his reckoning.

The closer he got to the boy the clearer the situation was. D'Artagnan was doing his best to hide the trembling in his tense body, and he would have fooled Aramis if he looked no further than the boy's emotionless face. The physician's words about recovery and stress floated through Aramis' mind like a serpent on water, silent but deadly if there were any further false steps. Though he was furious with Athos, he tempered his anger for the sake of their younger friend as he approached.

"I don't understand it," D'Artagnan said, staring at a point along the far wall. "How can one blow make me forget years of practice? I've known these simple things before I was old enough to ride."

"You took a serious injury, D'Artagnan," Aramis replied. "One that could very well have killed you. It is fortunate for all of us that it did not. I wake every morning thanking God for his mercy that night."

The younger musketeer whirled on him, grasping for control over his own temper and failing worse than Aramis. "But this isn't me. And it's no mercy. It's a damned punishment for something stupid that I can't even remember doing!"

Aramis approached with an outstretched hand. "Things haven't been easy, I know. And while Athos has no excuse for his behavior-"

"Is that what's bothering him? Me? How can what happened to me make him act like this?"

Aramis opened his mouth and subsequently closed it when an appropriate answer wasn't forthcoming. He bit his lip and leaned on the gate beside the boy, thinking and piecing his thoughts together with care. "He was with you when it happened. There is much he blames himself for and refuses to speak of."

D'Artagnan shook his head, still not comprehending. "But why? You've told me several times that I was the one who ran after that Spaniard and it was Athos who followed after me. If it's anyone's fault it's mine, not his!"

The older musketeer took a deep breath and calmed his dark thoughts when they turned to the real cause of their mess, forcing himself to focus on the dust particles that shone in the morning light in front of him. "If you want to place blame, then don't put it on your own shoulders. That Spaniard was the one who did this to you. And, God willing, he will pay for what he's done."

A long silence passed between them. D'Artagnan's horse stuck her head forward and nuzzled the side of her master's face, as if sensing his…or perhaps _their_ turmoil, seeing as how she knocked her head into Aramis' a little more bluntly. But he didn't blame her for concluding that he may have been the reason why. Even his own horse in the stall opposite the one they stood in front of, who normally kept to himself and ignored similar human interactions or conversations like this, stuck his head out in curiosity. Aramis couldn't help but envy their ignorance.

At length, D'Artagnan sighed. "I'm sorry, Aramis. You're telling me not to place blame on my own shoulders, and in good faith I can't do that. I know the friendship between you and Porthos and Athos is strong, stronger than mine with any of you, I'd wager. But-no, let me finish. If there were anything I could do to lessen the strife between you three, I would. But it seems the only thing I can do is the very thing I don't know how to-"

Aramis snatched the boy's chin in a gentle but firm grip, commanding full attention. "This is _none_ of your responsibility. Do you understand? What goes on between the three of us, and the arguments Athos and I have had, is none of your doing."

D'Artagnan jerked his chin free. "Then why do the three of you stare at each another every night as if you're allowed to pass blame amongst yourselves?"

Aramis opened his mouth to reply, but found no answer coming forth to his lips to rebuke the statement.

"It doesn't take a learned man to see that things weren't always like this, Aramis."

This time D'Artagnan's horse took a gentler approach and, as if encouraging him to voice the treacherous demons that plagued him night and day, nudged him in the shoulder toward the younger one. Though he ignored the affection, he reached down into his pocket for the apple he'd been planning on eating for breakfast and pared it into three smaller chunks for the animal.

"If you'd nearly lost a good friend," Aramis said softly. "Who was and is by all means like a younger brother in our strange company, and for a short time been relieved by the fact that you'd been given him back only to realize he was not the same and may never be the same as he was before, because of something that could very easily have been prevented…how do you think you could look your other brothers in the eye and not dwell on all the chances there might have been?"

D'Artagnan was quiet for a long time, and Aramis thought to leave the boy to himself and give him some privacy, but before he could D'Artagnan put a hand on his arm. "What happened then won't change anything right now."

"No it won't," Aramis agreed. "Would you agree that moving forward seems the only option?"

It was D'Artagnan's turn to hesitate, gears turning in his mind with recognition dawning a short time later on the fact that Aramis had purposefully led their conversation in this direction. The boy defiantly pursed his lips and turned away, but distinctively nodded in agreement.

Aramis allowed himself a small smile and covered D'Artagnan's hand with his own. "Then, you need to be patient and let your memories come back on their own. Spending your days trying to remember may only set you backwards, and we certainly don't want that."

"If you know me as well as you say," D'Artagnan said with his head held a little higher. "Then you know that doing nothing is not something I do. Ever."

Aramis laughed, and was pleased to see D'Artagnan crack a smile as well. "Yes, that I do know. Perhaps all you need in the mean time is a little practice to help you remember."

The boy bit his lip and the sudden burst of happiness ebbed away under the weight of a doubt he hadn't let any of them see until now. "What if it doesn't come back?"

Aramis took a deep breath and squared his shoulders with D'Artagnan's in a show of unwavering confidence. "Then you relearn how. And we'll help you. Just…have a little more faith in things, if only for my peace of mind?"

D'Artagnan didn't speak, but nodded in understanding. And before either of them could say anything more, D'Artagnan's stomach let out a loud growl. The boy blushed and mumbled an apology, but Aramis waved it off and steered their younger one inside to a proper breakfast. Once the boy was settled he shared a warning look with Porthos before heading upstairs. And Porthos caught his arm before he set one foot on the staircase.

"At least try not to scream at each other this time."

"That's up to Athos," Aramis replied with fire in his eyes. "You'd best take D'Artagnan outside at any rate."

Porthos frowned, but complied as Aramis ascended the stairs.

To Aramis' credit he didn't storm down the hall, just loud enough for Athos to hear and prepare for. And Aramis even shut the door like a civil man should. He was a bit surprised that the door wasn't locked, and that nothing was thrown at him either. Athos turned to him, indignant and clearly angry at his privacy being invaded, but before the man could even open his mouth, Aramis and his cold words were upon him from the outset. "_Enough_ of this, Athos! I say, enough. Do you hear me?"

"I hear you," he growled. "But I choose for the sake of your _life_ not to listen. Get out."

Aramis crossed his arms in front of his chest and stood his ground with a very real threat. "Need I fetch my sword for this? Is that the only way you'll listen?"

Athos scowled and clenched his shaking fists at his sides. "Don't tempt me."

"Is this what we have been reduced to," Aramis exclaimed, throwing his hands out. "Because of one man's folly? Because of an accident that could have claimed any one of us?"

"Well, it wasn't just _any_ one of us," Athos snapped, pacing the length of his room.

"I know that. What concerns me and us at the moment, however, is not what happened back then but what is happening right now-rather, what you've been allowing to happen since we brought D'Artagnan home."

"Tread carefully, Aramis. My patience is done."

"Your patience fled the moment he opened his eyes and didn't recognize you."

Athos stopped pacing, but didn't look up.

Aramis stepped forward to give his words the punch they needed. "You truly are a moronic fool if you continue to believe that your actions, your mere presence, is a hindrance rather than a help!"

Swords between them were never needed in arguments because the exertion from words alone was enough strenuous activity for an entire morning and part of the afternoon depending on the subject. Based on Aramis' earlier predictions this confrontation was leading up to be one that would last through noontime and beyond. But that didn't deter the young priest from what needed to be said and done, and not mentioning the fact that both men could be just as dangerous and formidable without their weapons.

"Athos," he warned. "If you're done with him then at least have the courtesy and respect to tell me now. If you want to push him away then so be it but I will not allow you to bring more harm to a friend that means more to _us_ and you than your stubbornness is willing to allow!"

Athos was on him within the blink of an eye, pinning him forcefully against the wall, but restraining the worst of his anger out of the respect they still had for one another. "How _dare_ you even insinuate such a thing when you know well and good that boy is everything to m-to us!"

Aramis pushed him away and advanced like a lion stalking his prey. "No, Athos. How dare _you_ run from him when he cries out for your help. You don't even turn your back when he calls. You don't hesitate-you don't miss a single step!-"

Athos stopped Aramis' advances with a strong and unfriendly shove. "Don't disguise deprecation for care, Aramis. I'd accept you openly patronizing me before sinking as low as some Goddamned schoolboy waiting for his punishment. You think you can scour the depths of me?"

"No one in this wide world can or will because you keep your heart locked up like a murderous felon waiting for the gallows!"

"And murderous it is! It's killed before and very nearly ended me when _that idiot boy_-"

"Lower your voice," Aramis hissed. "We already have D'Artagnan thinking he's the cause of all this strife between us and I will be damned to hell if I'm to let that train of thought continue! We, namely you, need to stop ignoring this like an unwelcomed guest that will simply disappear if you will it to. D'Artagnan needs our help now more than ever and the only way we can do that is if we act as we normally do-"

"How am I supposed to look him in the eye and pretend that none of this happened? How can you ask that of me?!"

"With ease. The same way you convinced us that he wasn't dying on the battlefield nearly a year ago, despite the overwhelming chance that he would! You were strong then and you can be now if you choose to. There was no blame for you before and there isn't any here-"

"None," Athos exclaimed in disbelief.

"Yes, none. I say none because though I wasn't there I know you and D'Artagnan too well to think that this was the effect of some poor oversight. This is not La Rochelle. And this is not your fault, Athos. The longer you continue to make yourself believe that the more pain you will put that boy through because even without his memories he knows you. He doesn't understand why and the only person who can give him those answers stands before me afraid of where his own shadow lies."

Aramis waited, having laid all his cards out for Athos to see. But he didn't see Athos' hand, because his friend turned his back and went to the window. The silence that passed between them was thick in the wake of their hot words of truth and truth-based fantasy. The waiting was always the worst. Sometimes the words sunk in with immediate effect.

"Leave me," Athos replied in a weary voice.

Sometimes they didn't.

Aramis closed his eyes in defeat and attempted to gather his wits for another round if need be. "Athos-"

"GO!"

The fact of the matter was that everything that needed to be said had been said by this point. Repeating the same would serve no other purpose. So Aramis allowed Athos this one last bout of childish stubbornness and went to the door. He hesitated with the cool doorknob in his hand, finding more words suddenly flying out of his mouth before he could stop them. "If there is anyone who has the power to bring his memories back," he said. "It certainly does not lie with Porthos or I."

It was after that thought when his strength to leave returned. He told himself Athos would come around, but that had been days ago. He hadn't imagined this. He hadn't imagined a time when they dissolved into scarce words here and there, glances or glares misdirected in the absence of the true villain who put them in this horrible purgatory. It all seemed so wrong and unfair, mostly because there seemed to be no resolution anywhere within sight. Aramis had a great deal of faith, that was true, but in the past he had trusted in God to send him signs of reassurance, signs that he was still there, that Aramis couldn't stray when things were close to fruition. If the Lord did work in silence, and if this were truly a test, then he was sure he was failing.

And miserably so.

"No luck," Porthos asked quietly from the foot of the stairs.

"Of course not," Aramis groused.

Porthos shrugged. "Perhaps some more wine will temper him a bit?"

"Giving in to his vices is not going to help if it hasn't already!"

From behind his back, Porthos produced the bottle of wine he had been referring to and gestured with it to him. "And what of your vices?"

Aramis looked down and noticed that his own hands were still shaking. Whether it was from the anger or the all too real fear that things were truly falling apart around them he wasn't sure. Either way, he fell from his high horse into the comfort of something familiar and reassuring and counted himself lucky. "I'm sorry," he quietly apologized, rubbing the hollow spaces beside his eyes. "I feel as if we are losing two friends instead of one. I hate this, Porthos…"

"So do I," Porthos sighed, pushing Aramis toward the back door. "Come on. A strong drink and a good fight will do both of _us_ some good, at the very least."

Aramis snorted and found a little bit of energy left for a half-hearted retort. "If falling on your arse will do you good then I will take your offer, my friend. For it will surely do my pride some good."

* * *

_A few hours later…_

Aramis finished washing up, refreshed and infinitely more relaxed than before. He replaced the cross around his neck as he went across the hall to D'Artagnan's room. He suspected the young boy to be resting again when he hadn't come to watch them duel earlier, but strangely found the room empty. The former priest frowned and quickly left to check the courtyard and the stables, but found no trace of their young friend. Panic flared in his chest but Aramis refused to be its victim. Briefly, and very briefly, he wondered if this was how his parents felt when he snuck off in the middle of the afternoon to play with his cousins. Though he normally would have appreciated the irony, it was presently unwelcome.

Aramis found Porthos by the fire about to enjoy an afternoon nap. "Porthos, have you seen D'Artagnan?"

Porthos blinked and gestured with his head to the back door. "He went out to the stables to tend to his horse-"

"Did he say why? Did he say he was going anywhere else?"

"What do you mean," he asked, sitting up straighter.

Aramis put both hands on his hips and fought with his body not to start pacing the room. "He's not out there, Porthos."

"He's not up in his room?"

"That was the first place I checked!-"

"What about Planchet? Perhaps the boy-"

"What are you talking about," Athos asked from the staircase, hoarse, but alert, and strangely put together, mostly.

Aramis turned and hesitated to give the answer, but did not begrudge anyone the truth they were reluctant to make real. "D'Artagnan's missing. And his horse is still here."

As if witnessing the miracle he'd been asking for, the air around Athos seemed to change, banishing the melancholy and dark thoughts from his frame. Life came back into his limbs and he moved to get his effects with the energy of a man half his age. Aramis and Porthos followed his lead and all three fell into their familiar roles when danger called. This time, however, there was no excitable thrill driving them.

"How long ago did you see him," Athos asked, as they made their way to their horses.

"Half an hour. Maybe more," Porthos replied.

Athos got his own horse saddled in record time and was already climbing up before Aramis and Porthos finished with theirs. "That's not much, but we have much ground to cover before it gets dark. Split up and see if anyone's seen him, but keep this quiet."

They all shared a knowing look before they left, not too keen on the idea of a particular someone finding out more than what he had been told of D'Artagnan, or his condition.

* * *

Letting his feet take him where they willed seemed like a good idea at first.

Walking had always helped him to clear his head in the past, and no other remedy over the past week compared to the amount of relief he felt now. He hadn't given the consequences much thought…until he turned to go back to their apartments and had a small private moment of panic. D'Artagnan turned in a circle before resolutely continuing down to the corner for a look around. When that proved fruitless he clenched his jaw shut and kept on his chosen path out of sheer stubbornness. He was_ not_ about to stop and ask for directions. If he'd been living in Paris for as long as his friends told him then he would have to come across something eventually that would spark some recognition of where he was. But after a short while his mind turned his attentions elsewhere and the next time he blinked he was somewhere completely new, unsure of how he'd gotten to this place from where he was before.

It shouldn't have surprised D'Artagnan because his mind had been anything but attentive over the past few days. Often during dinner conversations he would lose track of the stories his friends were telling him, he would find himself suddenly downstairs sitting with his friends instead of up in his room, and once he'd asked the same question three times in a row to Planchet without realizing it. He never said anything about the worst of them, even though they unnerved him to the core, because what he hated more than anything was how the slightest matter negatively affected his friends.

One slip of the tongue or blink of an eye was enough to drain all the warmth from the room, to replace it with something heavier that quickly became the normal kind of atmosphere in a place that should have been much more comfortable and inviting. If these were the kind of things a mad person felt on a daily basis, D'Artagnan couldn't help but empathize with them. He did try his best to keep up a brave face throughout it all, but the incidents were starting to wear him down and he was starting to doubt how much longer he could keep them to himself.

There were only so many times he could feign exhaustion and lack of sleep as excuses for things that simply weren't going away, no matter how often he tried to ignore them. During the first few days he slept more than what should have been normal for any man coming home from a long journey. Any kind of small activity like going downstairs or tending to the fire was enough activity to put him to sleep for a few hours at a time. On top of this, his hours at night changed and his sense of time was disorientating to the point of making him irritable and short-tempered. He hadn't minded dealing with the issues on his own because it seemed easier for everyone if he did keep his mouth shut. But at present he was starting to regret not taking the small measure to at least tell one of his friends that he was stepping out. His own stubbornness and pride were the reasons why he was hopelessly lost.

In a spout of anger, he kicked at an empty wooden box in the street and felt his moods sink deeper when the throbbing in his head returned.

* * *

Porthos regrettably handed over the money he owed the pompous guard for the information he provided and set off in the opposite direction. He hated to part with money if he didn't have to, but if the lead was a good one then he would make an effort to forget it. As he and his horse trotted along, he wondered if Aramis or Athos had fared any better in their search, for the day was growing long.

* * *

He was smarter than this.

He was a musketeer.

He knew this city like the back of his hand…surely.

Well, D'Artagnan thought to himself. He had better start acting like it, then.

Otherwise he might attract the wrong kind of attention. So he pushed through his morose thoughts and continued on. His feet ached with every step and the sun felt much warmer on him than earlier in the day when he first set out from their apartments. He didn't stop for rest or to at least find a drink to quench his bone-dry mouth. It would have been the smart thing to do, but the smarter thing was to keep moving…when one was being followed.

* * *

Aramis jumped down from his horse and raced down the street, calling D'Artagnan's name. The boy didn't stop or turn. That only made the priest race all the faster, bumping into people along the way. But when he reached the boy and turned him around, he was face to face with someone else. Someone he didn't know. Someone he had to apologize to and send on his way down the street that was darkening with the sun's descent below the rooftops. He had been so sure it was him…

* * *

Some instinct in him took over the moment he felt eyes on him, and he let it. He kept a normal pace, but took turns he wouldn't have otherwise taken, keeping a slightly quicker pace and glancing back discreetly when he could. But whoever was tailing him was good. And as D'Artagnan continued on he felt the person getting closer. He bit his lip and though he wanted to break into a run he knew he wouldn't last long if he did. Never in his life could he remember feeling so helpless and frightened than in that very moment with a useless sword at his side and nowhere and no one to turn to for aide.

* * *

Athos turned in every direction in the busy square, pushing his sight to the limit in the deepening twilight, but he found no trace of the boy, nor of Aramis or Porthos. He was angry. He wanted to find the boy hours ago, give him a proper tongue-lashing for his stupidity, and be done with it all. Yet here he was, plagued with a festering anger that belonged to no one other than himself. No amount of alcohol could erase this, or any of his oversights he'd made with the boy these past few weeks.

People had to leap out of the way when he sped past. And it was lucky for him it was too dark for most men to recognize him. Otherwise he would have had a full roster of challenges he would have to face on the morrow. The only challenge he was looking forward to, however, was the one he already made more than a week ago now. And that one meant certain death for a certain Spaniard if he had anything to say about it.

* * *

D'Artagnan turned another corner with no options left but to stand and confront his assailant. And he really would have, had his arm not been grabbed and pulled in another direction. Before he could utter a single word he was hauled off balance down a small set of stairs by someone else into the cellar of the house next to him. He tried to struggle, but by that point he was already stumbling away from the nameless man. He whirled around and instinctively grabbed for his sword, snarling out words of warning. "Who are you, villain!-"

The man held up a calm hand for silence and kept his attention to the streets with his back turned. "I apologize, D'Artagnan," he whispered. "But Athos would certainly discount me among his few friends if I were to let you be the victim of some true villain's plot a second time."

That stopped him short. A friend? A friend had saved him? But who?

The older man turned to him and beckoned him closer. "Come, look for yourself."

D'Artagnan warily approached and looked out, spotting an angry man with dark hair and a darker complexion turning in circles and storming off down the street in barely concealed rage. What chilled him wasn't the way his follower had acted, but how the evening light still showed a hideous and freshly pink scar on his face. "Who is he," D'Artagnan whispered, part of him already knowing the answer.

"I do not know. Perhaps one of the men who attacked you that night, but it was dark then. You would know him better than I."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "You said you know Athos?"

The man nodded and closed the cellar door more securely. "I do. We served some years as musketeers together."

He felt his mouth drop open in surprise. "Monsieur Mainard?"

"Ah, you do remember me," the man said with a friendly smile.

D'Artagnan released the death-grip he had on his sword and forced himself to relax, briefly ashamed of his previous suspicions. "Only by name I'm afraid. I was told what happened afterwards, that it was your house I was brought to for treatment."

"It was indeed," Mainard revealed. "It relieves me to see you so well after that night."

"I must thank you for your hospitality and generosity-"

Mainard shook his head. "Think nothing of it. What would my wife think of me were I to leave someone to bleed to death on our own doorstep? Let's retire to a more suitable part of the house. You look like you could use a drink."


End file.
